


A Rebellious Woman

by theworthofhollin



Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas, The Musketeers (2014), d'Artagnan Romances (Three Musketeers Series) - All Media Types
Genre: (disclaimer: i totally read Bloody Jack as a kid so obvi this is homage), Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Canon Compliant, Crossdressing, Emotional Constipation, F/M, Gen, Genderswap, Hidden Gender, I am so weak, I need more girl soldiers in my life, M/M, Rule 63, Secret Identity, slow slow slow build, sort of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-31
Updated: 2015-09-15
Packaged: 2018-01-17 15:39:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 28,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1393114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theworthofhollin/pseuds/theworthofhollin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bullets, unlike the musketeers, are rather progressive in that they don't care if you stand or sit when you piss.</p>
<p>(Another Genderswap AU because apparently I'm weak)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Rebellious Woman

**Author's Note:**

> -I've given d'Artagnan the first name "Charlotte" mainly as a homage to the historical character "Charles de Batz-Castelmore, Comte d'Artagnan" whom our protagonist was originally based off. Women in the Musketeers era obviously have first names, and it made it easier to create a semi-realistic girl version.
> 
> Feel free to comment with ideas! i'll probably just go through the episodes pretty closely otherwise.

 

 

“C’mon, you’re tired, Papa, we should stop here.”

She flicks the dripping strands of hair out of her eyes as her voice cuts through the heavy rain. Her thick cloak sticks to her back and again she thanks her father for allowing her the riding breeches instead of her usual thick skirts. 

Her father twists around in his saddle to look at her. “Not yet, my darling, Paris is only a few hours away!” he calls back from under the brim of his hat. She can see his bright, white grin even in the gloom of the evening and can’t help the twitch of her lips in response.

She rolls her eyes. “I’m sure the city will still be there in the morning.”

He slows down to trot beside her and reaches a gloved hand to tap her cheek. She scrunches up her nose as he chucks her chin fondly. “There’s that smile I’ve been waiting for,” he murmurs. His eyes crinkle at the corners as he continues, his smile turning soft and loose. “Just like your mother’s. She always loved it when you smiled.”

 She swallows the thickness in her throat and pretends she doesn't hear him. She pushes his hand away gently. “And how would Mama feel if she knew you were dragging her delicate daughter through the mud—“

“--Delicate!” he barks with laughter, cutting her off. “I’ll give you delicate, you devious little—“ he leans over to pinch her left leg and she grins and plucks the heavy hat off his head. She uses the hat to point to the smoke curling above the tree line and pulls it close when he tries to grab for it playfully.

“There’s the inn up the road, Papa, and you’re getting pretty _delicate_ in your old age, I wouldn’t want you to _strain yourself_ —“ she breaks off with a laugh, twisting in the saddle as he growls halfheartedly and swipes at her again. 

“Fine,” he grumbles, glancing over at her sharply, rain dripping down his ruddy face. “But only if you can beat me there.”

Charlotte’s been one of the fastest riders in Gascony since before she was 10, but she’s still pretty sure he lets her win.

 --

 

“I hate when you do that,” she whines as they dismount in the slop outside the barn. “It’s like cheating!”

“Now, my girl, you’re just impatient.” He grins and snatches his soaking hat out from her fingers, ruffling her wet hair. “It’s the one with the kick in the last eighth that gets the glory.” He touches the hilt of her blade, hidden under her cloak for propriety, and looks her in the eye as he continues. “This goes for most things in life, dear. Remember that.”

She nods and takes the reins from him, pulling her cloak tighter around her shoulders as he turns and heads towards the entrance to the inn.

“Yes, father.” It’s his favorite saying, one he reminds her after every lesson. Charlotte’s boots squelch uncomfortably through the mud, as she thinks longingly of the warm glow she saw from the window of the inn. She ties the horses to the siding as she dumps her heavy cloak and bags along the stall wall.  Her old leather scabbard was the only dry item on her body, but she unhooks that from her belt, too. No sense dirtying her most valuable possession, she thinks to herself as she tucks the sheathed blade under her hanging outer layers.

Her father’s training began long before her mother’s death, but it did nothing to cool her fiery temper. She knew she had raw talent, to the point that no one in the small town held a candle to her when she had a blade in hand, but her father’s not-so-gentle teachings kept her as grounded as she could be. Women were not meant to hold a blade, they told her, until the night the raiders blew through the town.

After that, they tended to keep quiet.

She quickly finishes with the wet tack, and shucks her headscarf as she tries re-braiding her long hair. The rain had done nothing to help and she swears quietly as her fingers twist through the wild tangles.

The soft _click_ of a musket makes her freeze.

“Now, sweetheart,” a low voice rasps, “let’s take a look at what we got here, yeah?”

She turns slowly, heart pounding, to see the two gray figures blocking the exits. One raises a finger to his lips and taps his musket threateningly.

“Well, that’s just a pretty picture, ain’t it?” The speaker steps closer, gun raised, and she backs up until she felt the stone wall at her back. “I must be a lucky man, today.” The other figure, mouth covered with a mask like his partner, giggles maniacally.

“Lucky, lucky, lucky,” he whispers under his breath, giddy and terrifying, and Charlotte glances quickly to her side trying to gauge the distance between her sword and her captor. Too far. New plan. She widens her eyes and parts her lips, looking directly into the eyes of the man caging her in. He’s taking his gloves off and reaching for his buckle. His hands are fairly occupied.

“Please,” she lets her voice crack slightly, making sure they can hear it as she slides her left hand behind her, grasping for the knife in her belt. This was her first lesson. Give them a taste of the woman they think she is. Play on when they expect. She widens her eyes; dark, unblinking, guileless. “Please don’t.” The second man laughs again. Her fingers tighten on the hilt.

The man steps closer, exhales a foul breath onto her neck. He doesn’t even twitch when she slips the knife between his ribs.

As his blood warms her fingers, she hears a gunshot somewhere through the fog in her brain. She pushes the man away roughly.  _Papa,_ her heart exhales, and for a fractured moment, her vision goes white with terror.

When she comes back to herself, she’s stepping meticulously over the two slumped bodies and pulling her knife out of the second man’s throat as he gurgles on the ground outside the entrance. She sees the rest of the bandits, or whatever they are, running towards the horses near the road and starts to sprint after them before she hears her name.

“Don’t, Charlotte, don’t—“

Her father limps towards her. “Char- lotte…Char-…” his cough echoes through the air. “ _Charlotte_ ,” she sees his lips shape her name.

Something in her chest locks and her knees almost buckle under her before she starts running.

“Papa! Papa, I’m fine, I'm alright—“

He crumples to his knees.

Charlotte doesn’t feel the pain as she collapses next to him in the road, hand scrambling across his chest to find the seeping hole over his heart.

“No,” she gasps, heaving, “no, no, no…please, no,” she sobs out, and her vision hazes.

Someone is calling from the inn and she watches through her watery eyes as the gray figures on horseback gallop into the woods. Her father is whispering.

_“…_ Named Athos…he said... _Athos_ …” He lifts a shaking hand to the skin around her eyes, “Look. So…like your mother.” The blood on her hands streaks with rainwater. No, she's crying.

“Athos,” he repeats again, broken. Wet hair clings to her skin as she watches the men disappearing down the road. Towards the city, towards Paris.

Something cold and empty in her ribcage tries to claw its way out.

\--

 

So, the red lady in the inn was slightly terrifying. As was Paris in general.

Charlotte had introduced herself under her father’s name, d’Artagnan, and after tying her scarf over her hair and keeping her heavy jacket, cloak and breeches, no one seemed to be questioning it. She knew was tall for a woman, but nowhere nearly as curvy as her mother had been, luckily. She had more of her father’s shape, even at 18, and her dark coloring and angular features seemed to draw the conclusion that she was male.

She entered Paris the morning after the attack, and her mind remained carefully blank (except for the name _Athos Athos Athos_ stained into her heart) _._ The crowds press around her and she lets herself be swept into the winding streets, comfortably anonymous.

It’s quite blissful, she thinks dully, to be reduced to no one.

She gives herself three days in the inn, piecing herself back together and growing easy in her new skin, ( _D’Artagnan D’Artagnan D’Artagnan here you are nothing more than your father’s name_ ) until the dark, terrifyingly beautiful woman leaves her lover sliced open in her chambers.

She figures that was probably a good sign that it was time to leave.

Charlotte ( _d’Artagnan_ , she reminds herself) meets Constance through the grace of God, as she is searching for new clothes, having dropped the majority of her skirts and gowns in the mud outside of the city. She doesn’t really remember much of the ride here anyway.

“Sir?...Sir…uummm” a gentle clearing of the throat. “M-Miss?”

D’Artagnan glances up before catching herself and tensing. The dainty redhead touches her mouth with a small hand to cover her grin. She’s very pretty, with sharp eyes.

“Oh, oh, don’t worry, “ the woman whispers, “I wouldn’t have said anything, sorry, I just,” she scrambles for words and D’Artagnan feels the tension in her shoulders bleed out onto the ground. She tucks the loose strands of dark hair back under her headscarf and hunches her shoulders.

“It’s fine. I’m just…I’m here on my own. This is safer for travel.” Her voice sounds unfamiliar to her own ears, grating and heavy. She sounds wrecked, honestly, and the maternal look that comes over the redhead’s face shows that she hears it too.

“…I think you’re being very smart, really. I won’t say anything, but—um, d’you need help?” she gestures down as the haphazard collection of fabrics in D’Artagnan’s arms, and smiles gently.

“My name’s Constance, and I’m really quite good with …men’s fabrics.” She coaxes and holds out her hands to take the leathers and heavy cloth from her grip.

Several minutes later she has a new, thick, leather vest for her chest and several loose, dark, breeches. She keeps her boots and cloak, but Constance finds her a heavier jacket to hide her waistline. Charlotte D’Artagnan of Lupiac and Gascony leaves the market with a new wardrobe, new lodgings, and a gentle warmth in her numb heart.

 

 

It was Constance’s idea to keep her true gender a secret from her husband. From there it just became habit. Monsieur Bonacieux is brash and arrogant, and has a frankly terrible idea of facial hair, but he allows her to stay on only Constance’s reference and asks for a fairly reasonable rent. And most importantly, he is more than happy to tell her the whereabouts of the Musketeers Garrison.

“Thinking of joining up, boy?” he snorts derisively and picks at his meal, nosed turned up in the air. D’Artagnan is starting to think he’s just really proud of his inner nostrils.

“Not so much,” she replies, voice low and quiet. Constance glances at her in slight concern but says nothing. D’Artagnan continues. “I have some business to conduct on my... father’s behalf.” Monsieur Bonacieux harrumphs and finishes off his third glass of wine. Her hand tightens unconsciously around her fork as she watches Constance’s stiff, uncomfortable posture, but she does nothing. Yet.

Best to handle her problems one step at a time.

 --

 

 The Musketeers Garrison is dirty and imposing, looming over the streets of Paris. She feels the thrum of anticipation run through her veins as she takes it in. The furious litany of _Athos Athos Athos_ twists through her mind, aggressive and wild as she exhales and places her hand on her hilt as she steps through the tunneled entrance.

She felt sharp and fierce and hungry, heartbeat speeding up to match her steps. Several of the men glanced at her, but no one looks past the well-used sword on her belt and the look on her face.

Three figures are lounging in the courtyard when she emerges and she barely recognizes her own voice as she calls out to the men in question.

 “I’m looking for Athos.” The name rolls off her tongue and coats her throat with ash.

A dour-faced man with hard eyes turns to look at her. “You’ve found him,” he says, his stare evaluating. Objectively, he cuts a striking figure.  His eyes are very blue.

  She pulls her sword out with a graceful sweep, just as her father taught her, hands steady. 

“My name is d’Artagnan, of Lupiac and Gascony.” ( _Athos Athos Athos Athos_ rumbles heavy in her chest) “Prepare to fight, one of us dies here.”

 A man whose smile is too wide for his face shoves his partner excitedly in the background, saying something under his breath that makes the larger man’s grin widen.

“Now, I don’t know about you, but size doesn’t really seem to matter to this one at all, hmmm?” He laughs jovially, and the darker, heavier man he’d shoved rolls his eyes. She ignores them for the most part, watching her target ( _AthosAthosAthos_ ) as he grips his own sword and pulls it forth with a flourish.

Something cold settles under her skin and she twists her wrist to hear her blade slice the air.

“You’ve made a mistake,” he starts, before she feels the breath tear out of her throat and charges forward.

D’Artagnan knows she is very good with a blade. Her father put a blade in her hand the moment she could walk, and her mother’s rape and murder lit the fire that spurned her ferocity with a sword. She knows how to use another man’s strength against them. She knows how to dance around a parry and thrust with all the dexterity of a dancer, she knows how to curve and whirl her way out of an easy pattern, and most of all she knows how to use her speed. She can be fairly dangerous on her own, but give her a weapon and she can be deadly.

D’Artagnan is very good with a blade.

Athos is better.

She knows she should be ashamed when her body ends up sprawled in the dirt, filthy and chest heaving, two minutes later with three other blades pointed at her throat, but all she feels is lost and angry (and alone, her mind whispers).

“Boy, you’ve made a mistake.” The grim blue eyes of her father’s murderer stare balefully at her from under the brim of his (overcompensating) hat, and she feels her lip tremble slightly before she catches herself. “I never killed your father.” She searches his gaze for the truth, and the lack of pity in his eyes makes her pulse calm slightly. It’s uncomfortably refreshing. “I tend to remember the men I’ve killed,” he finishes.

“You deny it?” she asks breathlessly, her voice raw.

“I do.” He says firmly. She flips her body up from the ground, landing as gracefully on her feet as she can manage, blade in hand. It’s an impressive move, she knows, and she watches the ways the two men standing behind her opponent _ooooh_ in appreciation, albeit somewhat sarcastically. The handsome, smiling one even claps his hands after he puts his sword away. Athos simply raises a brow.

She feels loose and drawn, and her skin crawls under the assessing gazes of the three soldiers in front of her.

“He said your name,” she declares, almost silently.  “Why did he say your name?”

She knows she sounds like a child when she says it, but she doesn’t care.

“I’d like to find out.” He’s still watching her, clear blue eyes sharp and piercing, and he reaches out a large, gloved hand into the space between them.

She takes it.

 


	2. A Tangled Web

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It goes without saying that D'Artagnan is used to secrets. It doesn't make it any easier, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to hear everyone's ideas for the story! Anything you'd like to see happen?
> 
> (Also, I've got a list of actresses in mind for our girl D'Artagnan but feel free to hit me up if you've got a good one. )
> 
> Enjoy!

 

 

“You bloody idiot,” Constance whispers as she wipes the dirt from D’Artagnan’s face in her rented room. “You’re just trying to get ya’self killed. Bloody death wish from a silly little girl…ridiculous…tryin’ to prove ya’self with some sharp sticks an’ pretty clothes…idiots…”

Her rosy cheeks are flushed a pale pink in irritation, and D’Artagnan wonders vaguely what her own face would look like if she used the powders and creams she remembers from her mother’s vanity table. Maybe let her hair grow back out from where she’d chopped it off, let it curl gently the way it used to, framing her face. Wear those dainty lace gowns, shining silken skirts brushing the ground when she walks. Paint her lips red and line her dark eyes. Maybe she could be beautiful and deadly at the same time, she thinks.

She shakes her head and stops the daydream in its tracks. _No need to don another mask, D’Artagnan, you’re already wearing more than enough_.

 “D’Artagnan!” She can hear Aramis call her from the lower floor and she jerks upright. She hears the heavy bootsteps as he (and probably Porthos) charge up the stairs like hyperactive children. Her hair is loose over her shoulders and she’s only wearing a thin shirt over her bandages as Constance cleans her cuts from the practice yards that morning, and her heart leaps to her throat in panic.

Both women freeze before scrambling for the vest and bindings, stumbling over each other in their haste to hide her figure.

“ Just—“ D’Artagnan coughs, lowering her high, flustered register as she struggles with her shirt fastenings, ”--Just a second!” She calls out through the door as she ties her scarf around her hair and knots it at her neck. Her hands are shaking and she can hear the footsteps getting closer. Constance shoves her breeches at her and she jerks them over her hips while Constance ties off her vest.

The knob turns.

Aramis and Porthos stand in the doorway. For a moment, the four of them are dead silent. Then, in a terrifying mirror image of each other, the two musketeers slowly beam as they take in the picture. She tries to glance surreptitiously down at herself, and she can see everything seems to be in order, she’s mostly covered, so why are they…

“Well, now, we didn’t realize you had a guest.” Aramis says deviously. “I hope we aren’t …interrupting?” He lets the sentence dangle tantalizingly in the air, as he looks pointedly at her half laced breeches.

Um. 

Porthos snorts and pretends to cover it with a cough.

Constance gasps while she rushes to fix the lacing, both of them blushing wildly, and she shoves D’Artagnan forward through the door as she’s pulling on her heavy jacket. Oh, right, D’Artagnan thinks numbly. Single man, married woman. Half dressed in a tension filled room. Oops.

Stumbling out the door with Constance glaring fiercely at her mentors, she takes a moment to check herself subtly. Porthos interrupts her inspection with a hearty clap on the back, causing her to lose what little breath is left in her chest.

“Ah, who knew you had it in you, ya’ lucky bastard. Good pick, yeah!” He laughs thunderously and she’s pretty sure the ground shakes. Aramis is calling out across the street to Athos, whose leaning against one of the few shaded walls in the courtyard and frowning perpetually. Nothing new there, she thinks as she tries to calm her racing heart.

“You’ll never guess where we found our little protégée, Athos! Just try!”  Aramis is still laughing as she shoves him over with her hip. He barely stumbles, the jackass. “Oh, I’ve taught you so well,” he fakes wiping a tear as she glowers. Athos looks at her curiously, and for a moment she thinks she sees his lips twitch upwards before returning to their usual frown. She rolls her eyes.

“You’re all being ridiculous,” she grumbles, falling into step with Athos; Porthos and Aramis still chucking behind her. “It wasn’t what it looked like.” She steadfastly ignores the blood rushing to her face, knowing it only makes her look blotchy and girlish. She keeps her head low and wishes she could hide behind her old curtain of hair.

“Whaddya mean?” cries Porthos from a step back, “We practically caught ya with your hands up the wife’s goddamn skirt—“ she moves before he finishes speaking, spinning on her heal with her belt knife in hand, knuckles out with the flat of the blade still pressed along her forearm. The larger man’s eyes cross in his attempt to follow the tip of the hilt sticking out between her white-knuckled fist. He swallows.

“How bout you rethink those words, yes?” she murmurs, eyes sharp.

“Right, yeah, apologies,” he grimaces as Aramis smacks the back of his skull with a glove as he walks by them both.

“Manners, Porthos.” He calls out in reminder as he saunters past. She steps back and slips the blade back into her belt, nodding at the apology and trying to ignore the burning under her skin. She knows he meant nothing by it, but she really does hate the casual derisiveness these Parisian men use when they talk about their women.

 “It seems Porthos has forgotten our little pet is part wolf,” Athos drawls from a few steps ahead. She growls and snaps her teeth at him jokingly when she catches up, ignoring the flutter in her chest when she sees the flicker of a grin on his face.

Let’s not go there, D’Art, she thinks faintly, and shoves the feeling to the side.

“Why’d you call for me so early anyway? Is something happening?” she asks their de-facto leader. Athos glances over and doesn’t say anything for a moment, content to watch her awkwardly half-jog to catch up with his long strides. He nods at her sword hilt, and gestures vaguely when he finally responds.

“I know you’re _competent_ enough around a sword,” (she raises a brow and huffs, but he ignores her) ”but how do you feel about faking a duel?”

 She doesn’t bother answering, just stares until he’s forced to give her an explanation. D’Artagnan’s gotten used to the “tooth-pull” of information extraction that is Athos and Musketeer assignments. She considers herself an expert at the waiting game. Aramis and Porthos fall into step with them, watching in amusement as it plays out.

“It’s not required.” Athos sounds as if the words are actually being torn out of his mouth with pliers. “Completely voluntary.”

She doesn’t respond.

“You might be good at it. Maybe.”

A few more steps.

“Vadim already knows our faces, anyway.”

He clears his throat. “So… we can’t do it.”

“You probably won’t even need to spend the full night in the cell.”

She waits.

“…Probably.”

Aramis whispers to Porthos in _sotto voce:_  “There’s not even questions. It’s like watching a master at work.”

Porthos doesn’t bother whispering.

“Reminds me a’ my mother. ’S scary, ‘swhat it is.”

She has to look away to hide her grin.

 

 

It goes without saying that D’Artagnan is comfortable with secrets. But sometimes her web gets slightly tangled.

“She’s my…mistress,” she blurts out, fully aware of Vadim’s overzealous henchman breathing down her neck. She glances back and sees his glare falter before his expression goes mulish.

“Prove it, then, go on,” he growls. She doesn’t point out how childish he sounds, but he’s practically pouting in defiance, so she turns away before she does.

“ _Fine.”_ She rises from her crouched position behind the tree, and strides forward silent in the dark. For a moment, she’s very, very glad her boys (as Constance calls them) aren’t shadowing her, before she remembers that that’s the point of all this anyway.

“Constance,” she hisses, creeping up behind her friend as she hangs the washing out. She whirls around in a flash of red hair and wide eyes before D’Artagnan is whispering a quick, “Sorry, just go with it” and pressing their mouths together.

D’Artagnan has never kissed anyone outside of a boy from her village when she was very young, so the soft press of lips on hers takes her by surprise at first. Constance tastes sweet, like she’d had fruit, or maybe wine, with dinner, and she’s very warm. She can taste the yelp Constance releases before the smaller woman stills in shock and D’Artagnan can see, then, what the appeal is in kissing a woman, all softness and gentle curves. But she can’t help but wonder what a firm mouth and dense hands would feel like. Would the drag of stubble across her skin hurt, or leave a pleasant burn? Would a man would cradle her the way she’s seen them hold the women at the bar, like they were fragile, and precious, and safe? She wonders if Athos’ hands could wrap around her waist like that, press her close---

Constance squeaks against her mouth. D’Artagnan doesn’t draw out the performance any longer than it needs to be, but by the time she pulls away, Constance’s mouth is bright red as well as her cheeks.

“…What the bloody fu—“

“Sorry, sorry, someone’s watching me, I swear, sorry, I know, sorry.” She’s babbling, and she can feel the rush of blood to her cheeks, but she can see Constance’s expression melting from flustered outrage to understanding and battles on.

            “Go inside,” D’Artagnan whispers, leaning close in the pretense of another kiss as she shields their faces from their watcher’s view, “have the Musketeers here in ten minutes. I’ll explain everything then.” 

Constance nods jerkily, wide-eyed.

“ _Go_.” D’Artagnan hisses, giving her a subtle push. She turns back and jogs to her owner personal voyeur, to explain away her passionate rendezvous with her “mistress.”

D’Artagnan sighs and looks balefully at the heavens when she returns to the Bonacieux’s back door. There was a time in her life when this would’ve seemed unusual. Now this is just another Tuesday night, apparently.

(A few days later, over a few glasses of wine, she tells Constance that it was her first kiss. The night ends is tears and hugs and D’Artagnan tries to pretend it never happened.)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feel free to chat with me on tumblr! 
> 
> (www.theworthofhollin.tumblr.com)


	3. A Devil's Weed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos is right. D'Artagnan is more wolf than girl these days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think i've ever updated a story so quickly in my life. I'm so weak.

 

 

“Charlotte, Charlotte, Charlotte, Charlotte, Charlotte, Charlotte, Charlotte, Charlotte, Charlotte, Charlotte, Charlotte,” she whispers in the dark until the breath runs out of her lungs. She thinks if she says it enough, by morning it will be meaningless, like the daughter of a family that doesn’t exist anymore.  Her lungs hurt a little less every time.

“Charlotte, Charlotte, Charlotte, Charlotte, Charlotte, Charlotte, _Charlotte_.” The name sounds weak and brittle floating in the air above her bed, and she wants to snatch it out of the dark and swallow it back until she stops feeling like this shadowy husk of a person.

She takes another breath, and releases her name into the cool morning breeze coming in from the window as it wisps it away.

Maybe today it won’t hurt at all.

(She’s getting very good at lying.)

 

 

She rolls out of bed fairly early after she gets bored with pretending to sleep, dressing quickly. The kitchen is quiet except for Constance methodically chopping vegetables for stew and humming under her breath. D’Artagnan smiles in greeting and goes to pour a cup of tea, grabbing a cup for each of them. The routine is familiar, and it does a lot to soothe the restless nerves under her skin.

D’Artagnan is helping peel the potatoes with her belt knife when the humming grows quiet.

“If you don’t mind me askin’…. how d’you learn to fight like that?” Constance breaks the comfortable silence as D'Artagnan puts the vegetables in the pot. She glances up at her friend as she stands at the window, red hair shining in the sun and the line of her corseted back silhouetted against the early light. The sound of chopping has stopped, too.

“I saw you, in the practice yards. You looked like a dancer.” She sounds wistful and pensive, but there’s an undercurrent to her question that makes D’Artagnan really _look_ when she turns to face her.

“It was really beautiful,” Constance adds softly. D’Artagnan flushes a bit and sips at her tea before answering.

“My father taught me, actually.” She pauses to gather her thoughts. “My grandfather was a blacksmith and they had a sort of…house rule, I guess, that the only weapons he would forge would be the one’s he could master. Papa hated that.” She chuckles softly at the memories. “He always wanted to try the battle axe, but his da had never tried it, so...” She shrugs. “My father married into our farm, but he still kept up with the lessons and such. Family tradition.” Constance is riveted, eyes wide and guileless. The tight knot in her stomach loosens slightly in response.

“My brother died when I was little, leaving me as the only child, and Papa had no more sons to pass on the legacy, just me. It didn’t bother him, really. I was always more inclined to the sword rather than the needle. Anything to keep me busy.” Her nose wrinkles as she wipes the oils off her knife, not really thinking on anything in particular, just letting the words flow. Her childhood memories are sweet and sunny, but then again, her childhood didn’t last very long.

“I was...11, almost, when the crops failed and bandits started gathering in the woods. Still don’t quite get the idea there, really,” a bitter laugh escapes from her mouth. ” ‘S not like we had any extra for ‘em to take.” She feels the rustle of skirts as Constance sits down on the kitchen bench next to her, and places a small, delicate hand over her own. She smiles slightly at the gesture. Constance is too sweet for her own good.

“Your mother?” she asks gently. D’Artagnan nods and purses her lips.

“We were in the village selling some herbs, I think, and I saw the smoke first. Don’t remember too much after that, really, but I know the house was burned and I found her body outside in the snow. Bandits hit us first, cause we were closest to the tree line, probably.”

 Constance is quiet, but the hand on her grips tightly.

“After that, no one really bothered with the crazy girl on the edge of town what played with swords more than people. I just wanted to be strong, I guess, and Papa knew that. Protect people, ya know?” The rough, country burr starts to soften her vowels and she swallows what’s left of her tea and turns to look her friend in the eye. Constance is steady and silent beside her.

“You are the finest woman in all of France, you know that?” D’Artagnan announces seriously. “And I must be the luckiest, because I found you on my first day.”

The bright blush that stains the other woman’s cheeks lifts the weight from D’Artagnan’s shoulders. Constance kisses her cheek.

“Stop that, now. Besides, look at you! Hero of the hour! You very well stopped a bloody terrorist attack the other day.” She lifts her nose, comically reminiscent of her husband. “I’d very well say we’re tied at least.” The stiff expression on her face lasts for barely a second before they both collapse in laughter. When D’Artagnan lifts her head again, Constance is grinning smugly, and she feels a heavy wash of protectiveness spread through her heart.

D’Artagnan catches her breath and swiftly stands, pulling the smaller woman up by her hands.

“I’ll teach you, if you’d like. You’d probably be good, too.”

The spark in her friend’s eyes is all the answer she needs.

 

 

Emile Bonnaire doesn’t feel right.

She can’t quite explain it, but something about his cheerfully modern, overly cultured exterior sets her teeth on edge. D’Artagnan is subtly listening to Porthos and the explorer chat about the big Musketeer’s heritage when Athos and his destrier pull alongside.

“You’re starting to scare the horses with that growl, boy.” He gestures to her face, where she can already feel the soreness in her jaw from clenching her teeth.  She tries to relax.

“I don’t like him, Athos.”

He raised a brow. “ _Ob_ viously.” She ignores his tone.

“I especially don’t like him talking to Porthos.” Something in her tone must catch his attention, because she can feel his eyes on her for a long moment. She takes a deep breath and tries to explain.

“On the farm, we had these flowers that would grow in the springtime. Bright red and beautiful. They smelled lovely, and the children would always try and play in the fields when they bloomed. My father called them Devil’s Weed, because they only grew in the field where Black Adders lived. My brother would try and pick them for me, until one day he got bit.” She focuses on the covered wagon rolled ahead of them, watching the bright orange of Bonnaire’s jacket sleeves as they flailed around. Porthos was entranced as Emil described some dramatic story about foreign lands.

“Does he remind you of the snake or the flower?” Athos asks quietly from her side.

“Not sure yet,” she doesn’t bother to look away from the man in question, “I’ll let you know.”

 

The real struggle with being a Musketeer isn’t the bloodshed, or the harsh training, or the long, brutal travel on horseback for days at a time. It’s not the blisters or the cold, or the blinding 5 minutes of terror that you hold your breath for. It’s not even the secrets, really. D’Artagnan has learned to live with the secrets.

But the gossip, though. Soldiers and boredom equals so. much. gossip.

“What d’you mean you _got to know_ her?” Porthos spits water at Aramis over their miniscule fire pit, where Athos is currently charring another batch of rabbit. “Biblically, I hope.”

“She is a cultured woman of high class, you heathen, watch your tongue.” Aramis throws cluster of berries at him, dramatically outraged. He chews a mouthful and then smirks, before finishing. “But yes to that, too.”

Bonnaire's laughter is bright and infectious and D’Artagnan has to stop herself from stabbing him in the throat. Athos catches her eye and they share an exasperated look.

“What about you, boy, you’ve got a warm bosom waiting back home, I’m sure?” Bonnaire directs the question at her and she can’t exactly pretend she didn’t hear him, considering he’s less than two feet away. She thinks about it, though.

“No, no,” she replies after a beat, her smile painfully stiff, “no _warm bosom_ for me.” Her laugh is so ridiculously fake even Porthos takes notice.

“Well that’s frankly inconceivable, my boy, you’ve got such lovely bone structure! You must be beating those wenches away with a stick!” She smacks his hand away reflexively as he reaches for her face, but he doesn’t stop smiling. “They always do love the pretty boys don’t they,” the smaller man is shaking his head as if she’s going to join in on his joke.

“Did you just call me _pretty_?” she asks, incredulous. She’s not sure if it’s the stress of the day or the fact that Bonnaire was the one who spoke, but suddenly she is ridiculously offended by the assumption that she’s _pretty_. Flowers are pretty. Constance's blush is pretty. The soft, thin, useless, fabrics that hang in the market are pretty. She is none of these things. D’Artagnan narrows her eyes and wonders if he would still smile like that with her hands wrapped around his throat.

Apparently this shows on her face, because then Aramis is hastily drawing him away with questions about his tobacco farm. She leans back against a tree with a huff as Athos settles next to her, holding out a slab of rabbit (blackened, soot covered, and disgusting; but she bites into it anyway). “I still don’t know if he’s the snake or the weed, but God, he’s a piece of shit,” she grumbles. Athos coughs heavily with a hand to his mouth and she turns to glare at him, too.

 _Warm bosom_. Christ.

 

 

Athos’ chateau is beautiful. Desolate and skeletal and empty, full of broken windows and dirt on the floors, but still beautiful; like if she closes her eyes tightly enough she can fill all the spaces and breathe it back to life. If she were more of a poet, she thinks it would remind her of herself. Good thing she’s not a poet.

 The morning after Porthos’ “surgery”, she finds herself wandering the lower rooms, just dragging her fingertips along the scratched walls, humming out of boredom. She finds threadbare blankets for Aramis and Porthos, some old, sealed bottles of wine for Athos, and almost grabs a wooden comb for hair from what she thinks might have been a powder room, before she catches herself and puts it back. There’s no need to worry about her tangles anymore. She stands in from of the dusty mirror in the room for a very long time, though, touching her brows and chin, the corner of her mouth. What part of her makes her _pretty,_ she wonders? She can’t see anything past the ghost of her mother’s cheekbones on her face.

Her skin is coated with freckles now, and her already olive complexion has darkened with the sun. With the top of her head wrapped in her (dirty and stained--is that blood?--) scarf and her thick, course clothing, the only thing she ever thought was  “pretty” about her is her smile. (And that was always her mother’s, too.)

D’Artagnan’s not even sure if her mouth can shape that way, anymore. She tries to smile in the mirror like her mother used to, wide and open, but all she really ends up doing is baring her teeth at the glass.

Athos is right. D’Artagnan is more wolf than girl these days.

(Later, after she pulls Athos out of the flames of his beautiful house, she watches the hooded figure gallop off into the trees and the only thing that holds her back from the hunt is the slumped soldier in her arms. She feels wild and hungry and sharp again, but Athos keeps her human.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come chat with me on tumblr! (www.theworthofhollin.tumblr.com)


	4. No Strings Attached

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> D'Artagnan is not having a very good day, all things considered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so I changed some things around a bit for this chapter, for artistic licensing purposes, so bear with me. 
> 
> Obviously, Constance and D’Art’s bromance is super trusting, so I had to adjust some of the plot to hold true to that, and I also tweaked it so D’Artagnan and Aramis will be joining the boys in the Palace for the Duke’s Duel. And remember, just because D’Artagnan is taller than most women, does not mean that she is in anyway butch shaped. She is still slender and strong, but women’s bodies obviously hold muscle much differently than men, which means her fluid, compact, lean kinda body type will not translate to “manly” even if she wears lots of men’s clothes. She’ll just look like a really small guy with a bad tailor, ya feel? 
> 
> Besides that little disclaimer: ENJOY (I am spoiling you all so much, I never update this quickly [which means that more praise is obviously the answer I love your comments even criticisms give me more please])

 

“You want me to _what_?”

D’Artagnan cringes at Constance’s high tone, shuffling her back into a corner of the Bonacieux’s hallway as she covers the smaller woman’s mouth with one hand. Aramis and their would-be-assassin are talking softly in the next room.

_“Not so loud_ ,” she hisses back under her breath. “I’m not even supposed to be telling you this, they told me to _lie_.” Constance’s eyes widen and she pulls the gloved hand away form her mouth, furious.

“Lie? To me? They wanted to put a bloody _royal assassin_ in _my_ house and you’re askin’ me to _leave_ without any explanation—“

D’Artagnan rushes to explain, ”I know, Constance, I know, but they don’t trust you like I do, they don’t want anyone to know until we can figure this--”

“They don’t trust m—“

“Constance, please.” Her voice is firm and low. She can hear Aramis and Marsac go quiet in the other room. “It’s a matter of loyalty. ”

They step apart. Constance takes a moment to smooth her skirts before asking, “Loyalty? I had hoped you understood how loyal I could be,” she pauses and drops her voice, “Charlotte.”

The silence between them is weighted with tension until D’Artagnan whispers: “You know that’s not what I meant.”

Constance looks away. “I know, I’m sorry, I just…it makes me nervous.” She fiddles with the cuffs of her sleeves, and D’Artagnan wants to pull her into a hug and keep her safe, if only for a moment. Conscious of the men in the house, she doesn’t. Just barely. If Monsieur Bonacieux sees them in any close, out-of-context position, it could be dangerous for them both.

“I know. Aramis and I will keep him tied up in my room, but I don’t want you alone with home until we can verify this story.” D’Artagnan’s eyes flick to the wall between them and the men in question, calculating. “Something’s off about him. Even if he’s telling the truth, I don’t think he’s…all there, anymore.” Constance nods in agreement, somber, before stepping close to brush the shoulders of D’Artagnan’s heavy jacket.

“How’s the vest today?” she asks quietly. “I warned you not to sleep in that thing. Not good for breathin’.” They both glance down at her chest, flattened for the most part through heavy fastenings and their combined strong wills.

“I know, I know,” D’Artagnan drawls and pats her hand over her heart, “quit naggin’ me, woman. I’m fine.”

“Hush, you. I’m allowed to worry.” Constance tucks a few loose curls back under D’Artagnan’s headscarf. “Be careful,” she murmurs, before turning back to the hallway to finish speaking with their new houseguest. Aramis raises a brow in question when D’Artagnan follows close behind, but says nothing.

Marsac’s eyes follow Constance as she finally leaves the room, oily and slick, and something rumbles in her chest in warning. D’Artagnan doesn’t think before she crowds him back against to doorway, aggressive even as he looks down his nose at her. She doesn’t back down.

“Watch yourself.” She mutters, the growl in her throat just barely contained. The man stares at her, palms raised in surrender, but something in his eyes is too manic for her comfort. Aramis clears his throat.

“Well, then, we’d best get back.” He says carefully, more than aware of the tension in the room.

Marsac licks his cracked lips. “Just…admiring from a distance.” Her stomach rolls.

“Yeah? You’d best keep your admiration as far away as possible.” She replies, her belt knife sliding into the palm of her hand. D’Artagnan shifts to block Aramis’ view as she presses the point of the blade into Marsac’s crotch, gently. He stiffens and nods, throat swallowing.

As she’s walking out of the Bonacieux’s front door, she makes sure to slip one of her smaller boot daggers into Constance’s hands, discreet. If Aramis sees, he doesn’t comment.

 

 

“I slipped, sir.” She coughs. “On some…wet grass.”

Treville stares at her blankly, stepping forward until he’s directly in front of her. She’s barely a half-a-head shorter than him but it feels like much, much more.

“There is a killer on the loose,” the captain states, eyes hard. “I don’t need the smallest, weakest man in my regiment _slipping_ up again.”

“The more I look at you, boy, the less I think you can make it as a Musketeer. I don’t like weak links. Prove me wrong.”

D’Artagnan stays silent, but her nails bite deep into her skin.

“The four of you will report to the palace in the morning. I expect no more embarrassments.”

 

 

Athos rounds on them as they leave the yard. “You’re hiding something. Both of you.”

He twists his mouth. If it were anyone else, D’Artagnan would call it pouting. Porthos stands behind looking lost.

“I can tell when your keeping secrets.” Athos urges, and she has to bite her lip to hold in slightly hysterical laughter.

 

 

 

“A bodyguard of Musketeers?” the Duke sneers at them in contempt. “It’s like being protected by _wolves_.”

D’Artagnan tries not to snort at his word choice. (She fails.)

The Duke glances over. “And this one,” he points his finger right in her face and its all she can do not to snap it off, ”this one looks like my son could thrash him with his eyes closed! What is the meaning of this?”

The King doesn’t look up, instead his gaze focusing exasperatedly on the ceiling in the main hall. “I assure you, dear brother, my Musketeers are the finest warriors in all of France,” he glances down, taking in the picture of D’Artagnan struggling not to glare up at the Duke, who looms over her, twice as wide and a head taller. He raises a regal brow. “…no matter their misleading stature.”

“Is this a joke? I refuse to sign a Treaty with a nation who feels they can mock me to my face! It’s pathetic!”

D’Artagnan’s ears burn and she can feel Porthos rumbling angrily at her side.

“They are all more than qualified to keep you safe, your Grace, --“ Treville sounds worn and drawn, but the Duke cuts him off angrily when the Cardinal brings up their original treatise. D’Artagnan stares a hole in the floor while they argue around her, ears rushing. Porthos and Athos stand on either side and she takes a moment to draw from their sturdy presence. When she lifts her gaze again, the Duke is slowly walking towards their line. He glances at Athos for a moment, before his eyes drop to her.

“I will fight a duel,” D’Artagnan holds her breath as he continues, “with this soldier. If I lose, we will discuss the treaty. If I triumph, I will know your _qualified_ bodyguards are just another disgrace, and return home, immediately.”  

 The uproar drowns out any response from her.

Athos shoves her to the side, teeth clenched and speaking quickly while the Cardinal bugs out his eyes and flails his heavy sleeves. Her heart is in her throat and she can’t quite hear anything over the rushing in her ears. Aramis and Porthos stand beside her, dumbfounded, while the Duke and the King spit thinly veiled insults at each other. She stops listening, instead handing her heavy outer jacket to Aramis and unhooking her holster and belt methodically.

Treville is watching her. He nods silently and she feels a little of the weight on her shoulders lift. She unsheathes her sword with a slick slide of tapered metal.

“It seems we have a match!” the King announces over the frenzy, delighted. He turns to glance at the Queen, who seems slightly distracted with the proceedings. “Anne, what fun, don’t you agree?” She hums softly, and D’Artagnan files away the look her highness sends Aramis’ way. Now is probably not the time for that bit of drama, she thinks.

Athos is livid, barley contained. “He’s not even a damned musketeer yet!” Treville pulls him aside as the Duke prepares for the duel, muttering under his breath with his seedy advisor and sufficiently ignoring them.

“And that is not the point, here, Athos, and you know it. This is about honor, and, more importantly, underestimating an opponent.” He releases Athos’ arm forcibly. “And we need to prove to him that no matter how unassuming we might look, France is still _formidable_.”

Aramis pops his head between the two, smiling slightly while D’Artagnan limbers up.

“We need the boy to make an impression,” he whispered, eyes uncommonly serious. “D’Artagnan will be fine, Athos.”

She quirks a grin and whips her sword in a dramatic flourish, stepping towards the center of the room. She feels light on her feet, the familiar thrum of energy buzzing under her skin. The Duke faces her, ugly scorn on his face.

“It’s not the _size_ of the weapon, Athos,” she calls behind her without looking away from her heavy opponent, “it’s about how you use it, of course.” In a moment of daring, she winks at the Duke.

The King of France titters in the background in amusement.

“Begin,” sighs Treville, manfully ignoring her quip.

They whip their swords up in unison, stepping carefully around each other. The Duke was angry, not just at her or the King, but in nature, and she can see the aggression in the lines of his body. He feints to her left, slashing crudely and obviously, telegraphing his movements, trying to draw her out with a ploy. He expects to play with her, it seems. D’Artagnan can feel the tingle under her skin heighten in anticipation. She darts in with a quick butterfly maneuver, light and fast, their blades sheering against each other as he blocks her easily before trying to return the blow; but she’s already out of reach.

This is what D’Artagnan has learned, fighting against men. They expect you to fight the same way. They expect strength and power; they expect your speed to be congruent with the weight of your blow. They see a smaller target, and they expect to loom and bear down in triumph. They see weakness in the body, and they assume to find weakness in the blade.

Rarely is this true.

She twists around him, dodging his increasingly violent swipes, sword singing as it cuts through the air. She is silent and flowing around his patterns like silk, smooth and dexterous as liquid, folding her body away from the tip of his sword as it reaches for her.

His chest is heaving after only a minute. D’Artagnan feels her mouth curl slightly at the corner.

She extends her movements, pulling him in with sharp pricks in his defense, dancing around his frenzied attacks and chipping away at his stronghold. At one point, he almost catches her, interlocking their sword hilts and pressing his weight down until her arm and back muscles tremble. Loose curls of hair escape from her scarf and fall into her eyes, and she’s lucky to stumble out of the trap before he forces her to the ground; still, it leaves her sore and shaken. They won’t last must longer at this pace. It needs to end.

Their audience is silent, waiting on bated breath, and from under her loosened strands of hair she can see the King half-risen from his seat. Her musketeers are stoic and watching her intently as she gathers air into her lungs. The Duke of Savoy circles her, mirroring her balanced steps.

His sword tip sinks down just a fraction of an inch, his wrist limp with fatigue, and she lunges for the brief opening. He reflexively brings the edge up in an attempt to block her thrust, (and somewhere outside of her awareness she hears a tiny _snip_ of threads tearing) but by the time he reacts, D’Artagnan has sliced a perfect, clean line above his collarbone; a bright red mark on his pale, sweating skin.

The King is laughing joyously somewhere in the background.

“Shall we say… 9:00 in the morning, then?” Cardinal Richelieu steps around her as she’s lowering her blade, and Porthos claps a heavy hand on her shoulder from the side.

Something under her shirt loosens.

“That’s what I’m talkin’ about, right there, djou’ see that?” Aramis crowds next to his cackling friend, eyes sharp with amusement while Porthos guffaws. “Bloody brilliant, ‘s what that was, by God.”

She is frozen in panic, trying to surreptitiously adjust the vest holding her chest flat, while trying to smile shakily at her friends jostling her around. D’Artagnan hugs herself tightly (don’t break on me, not yet, she prays) as she seeing the room start to blur. _The bloody King is here, please, God, no, not now._

Athos is standing next to her, placing a hand on her shoulder, blue eyes sharp with something she can’t identify through her horror.

“D’Artagnan? Are you hurt?” he asks. “Did the Duke cut you?” She has no idea what the expression on her face is saying, but she mumbles something under her breath about needing a bathroom and rushes for the side door to the chamber. Thankfully, the nobles have begun to adjourn to the main room, The Duke of Savoy snarling petulantly at their front, leaving her unnoticed. She barely glances at them as she rushes past.

“No, no, no, no, no, no…. _please,_ ” she chants over and over through the empty halls as she grips the rapidly buckling vest to her chest. It’s doing next to nothing now with the laces cut, and she can see her breasts pressing against the leather, the line of her cleavage familiar and indisputable.

A blue door on the right finds her in a small powder room, attached to what she thinks is an empty sitting area. Most importantly, its empty.

She’s unlacing her shirt and belt, cursing herself for forgetting her jacket with Porthos, ( _Porthos_ god fucking dammit) and she barely remembers to close the door behind her before the vest falls out from under the cloth to land in a crumpled, sad heap around her feet.

She sends a quick thank you prayer to whoever let only two of the laces tear.

            Shirt hanging open to her ribcage, sweat dripping down her back, she feels the cold room sending shivers running through her skin. D’Artagnan’s tries to ignore the effect the air is having on her bare chest, instead trying to focus on cooling the rapid-fire beat of her heart as she reconnects the bindings on the thin vest. Constance had made more than enough adjustments to the bindings to make it easy to retie any damaged laces, but her shaking hands aren’t making it easy. She drops to her knees on the floor, ignoring the dull thump and the accompanying pain. It helps her focus.

            By the time she’s finished threading the vest with the hastily tied laces, her scarf has fallen to rest around her neck, leaving her short hair a tangled mess around her face. She takes a breath and lifts her handiwork—

            “D’Artagnan? Are you in there?”

             It’s Aramis. His footsteps are coming towards the blue door, which was left cracked open in her rush. She jumps to her feet, scrambling for the lock.

            “Athos sent me ahead in case you’re injur—“ a gloved hand curls around the door, and she freezes, caught dead in the middle of the room as he opens it the rest of the way and steps through.

            “Um,” she says, very eloquently. Her hand drops from where it halted in midair. Neither of them moves.

            Aramis is gaping at her open shirt, dragging his eyes up from her breasts to her face to her wild hair, to the newly fixed vest on the ground and before she can think it through she steps forward and punches him in the face.

            Unfortunately, (or maybe not so much) his chin catches the doorknobs when he falls, and his eyes roll back before he slumps to the ground, boneless.

            She looks down at his prone form. “Um. Right. …Sorry?”

            Aramis doesn’t answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [insert evil laughter]
> 
> also apologies i wrote this in about an hour there are so so so many mistakes but i couldnt wait


	5. A Fine Name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m good with a sword, Aramis, I know this. But why just be good at something on your own, when you know you can be great?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long! Sadly, couldn't fit Milady in this one, but she should be making a fairly grand appearance soon. As will more Athos/D'Artagnan shenanigans. Anyways, enjoy!

“Oh god, please don’t be dead, please don’t be dead, _Christ_ , you’re heavy,” she chants under her breath as she heaves his deadweight through the door. His face is mashed into the floor and she hears a muffled moan from the rug. “Oh thank god, Aramis,” she drops to her knees and rolls him over, “how many fingers am I holding up? Answer me, quickly!”

He glares up at her blearily. “Zero?” he mumbles. For a moment she’s terrified she broke him, until she realizes her hands still haven’t moved from his shoulders.

“Oh, wait, sorry.”

“What have I ever done to you, you _devil_ ,” Aramis groans dramatically as she gingerly presses her fingers on his bruised chin. It’s already purpling in the low lighting and she winces in guilt.

“Sorry, sorry, I just-- I panicked.” Her vest is laced tightly and she goes to retie her headscarf. Aramis watches from his slumped position against the closed door, eyes slightly unfocused, as she tucks her dark hair back under the fabric.

“Always wondered why you wore that,” he mumbles, hand waving lazily towards her head. “Makes you look like a …pirate. Or a dashing…something, I don’t know, ow.” His words are slurring and she shifts closer to look at his pupils.

His dark eyes blearily follow her movements as she checks him over clinically. “Good, okay, no concussion, just a hard knock.”

“You’re a girl.” Aramis announces. His sleepily closed eyes snap open in shock. “ _You’re a girl?”_

She tilts his head to the side, checking his bruised chin and trying to ignore her rapid pulse. “Yes. Good instinct.”

“How long have you _been_ a girl?” he demands before blinking slowly. “Wait…”

She looks at him, unimpressed. The doorknob must’ve rattled him more than she thought. “Long enough to know that being a boy is much easier.”

He shifts forward, shaking his head slightly to clear it. He picks his hat up form the ground where it fell, and places it back on his head, using both hands to hold it there for a long, silent moment. D’Artagnan waits, listening at the door for any more footsteps while Aramis thinks quietly to himself.

“Why? Why would you--” he looks at his appraisingly before continuing. “No, no, I can understand the whole disguise, but… why a Musketeer? What reason…”

He seems genuinely curious as he trails off, and D’Artagnan thinks for a moment before opening her mouth to answer. Suddenly, voices echo through the wall, and her mouth snaps shut.

“Aramis? D’Artagnan?” a voice calls out calmly from down the hall. Aramis turns to look at her, taking in her wide eyes and pale face before he’s wobbling to a stand.

“Porthos.” He mutters, pursing his lips. “I’m assuming you don’t want this…information -- out in the open?”

She says nothing, knowing her new life in Paris hangs in the balance.

He sighs, dropping his shoulders in defeat before reaching a hand to help her up. Aramis: always chivalrous no matter the occasion.

“I don’t like this, for the record,” he says under his breath. She looks at him after checking her shirt and adjusting her layers. “But I don’t know how I missed it before, really.” He looks her up and down; not sexually, but with new insight. “And I’m supposed to be the clever one.”

 She rolls her eyes as her nerves start to calm. _This is Aramis, you can trust him_ , D’Artagnan reminds herself. He grins slightly before stepping through the door with a quick: “Follow my lead.”

 

 

  The others don’t question him when they emerge. (“just a nick of the blade, thought it was worse than it was, no worries, boys!”) She stays silent as they head out to the palace together, Aramis glued uncomfortably to her side and Athos hovering severely. (She thinks this might be his version of concern, though to anyone else he probably just looks dangerous). Porthos seems comfortably oblivious, which she’s grateful for, as he chats amicably and ignores the slight tension. Thankfully, Treville soon sends Athos and Porthos off to apologize to the Duke on her behalf with a dry look, before explaining: “It’s not like we want to rub the rookie in his face again, Athos, you handle it. At least you usually _pretend_ to be courteous.”

(They all pretend that’s not a boldfaced lie.)

Aramis is unusually taciturn, and their walk back to the Bonacieux house is weighted with all the questions he’s not asking. At first she’s grateful for the reprieve, but his shadowy presence is starting to grate on her nerves.

“Just spit it out, you oaf,” she laments. “I’m not about to start sobbing my guts out in your arms.”

He holds out his hands in defense, turning to face her while they walk down the dyer’s alley. “I didn’t say anything yet!”

“Well, you’re thinking to loud.” D’Artagnan doesn’t want to look at him for fear of what she might see. “Just ask, alright. I’m still me.”

His eyes bore holes into her as they trudge along. She kicks a rock out of her path, and she knows she looks like a scolded child but can’t bring herself to care. She’s so nervous her heart feels like it’s about to claw its way out of her throat.

“So.” Aramis doesn’t seem to know where to start. “So.”

“So?”

He tries again. “So…”

“Aramis, I swear, I’ll kill you myself—“

“Well, pardon me, my _lady_ , it’s not exactly a situation I’ve dealt with before, give me a moment.” He pulls his hat off of his head and waves it up and down her person as if that explains everything. (It kind of does, really.)

“I’m a little thrown, to be honest.” His face is earnest and open and her nerves slowly start to settle. “You’re a fighter, yes, but why a soldier?”

She’s quiet for a long stretch, hands shoved in her jacket pockets. Aramis strolls along with her patiently as they turn onto the street where the Bonacieux house resides.

“I’m not sure, honestly,” she starts, brows furrowed. Aramis makes a questioning sound, and she tries to explain. “Coming here, to Paris, was never really …planned. It was a necessity, because Papa was afraid to leave me alone in Gascony while he travelled. But here,” she gestures at the bustling swarm of people in the streets, the color, the movement, the noise, “here, everything is bigger. Everyone has a purpose, a need. I want to be a part of that.”

“So you just decided one day, ‘I need to be a Musketeer’ and that was it, you just--” he motions to her chest and scarf and sword, blushing lightly,” did all this, to be another sword for France?”

D’Artagnan rolls her eyes.

“I’m good with a sword, Aramis, I know this. But why just be _good_ at something on your own, when you know you can be great?”

 

 

Constance is washing linens out back when they arrive.  She takes one looks at them and exhales forcefully, before dropping her current swath back into the tub with a wet splash and shuffling them inside.

“Really? Aramis is the first to find out?” she snaps at the musketeer, who in turn grins cheekily and tips his hat, before she’s pulling them into the side room.

“Sorry,” D’Artagnan replies, “it’s not like I just picked at random. There wasn’t really a choice involved.” She’s not so subtly glancing around for Marsac in the empty house and Constance jerks her chin towards the ceiling, signaling his location and motioning at them to shut the door. She steps out before Aramis closes it, gesturing vaguely to her room while it clicks shut behind her. D’Artagnan heads upstairs.

She can hear Constance’s muffled tone through the floor, and Aramis’ melodic rumble as they explain to each other, but she ignores them in favor of checking on their resident fugitive. Marsac is slumped on the floor in the back room, snoring softly, hat tilted low. She doesn’t bother to wake him, knowing Porthos and Athos will be back soon with news of the Duke’s potential treachery. Instead, she takes the time to undress behind her locked door, re-adjusting the hastily retied bindings on her vest that her panic left rumpled and uneven. With the adrenaline from the fight earlier, and the ensuing Aramis Problem, starting to finally leach away, her body feels stretched and worn in the worst of ways. The cage she locked herself in, tightlipped and silent, is starting to warp and for a moment she wanted to cry just for the sake of letting something out.

The muffled voices from below her start to melt through the floor directly below her, stopping her mid-breakdown. She can hear Constance whispering:

“…she’s younger than you’d think, too. Not more’n twenty, I’m sure.”

“Why does she need to fight so badly? Why put herself through this…?”

“Why d’you think? She’s got more than enough reason to want to defend people, sir, I’d thank you not to take that tone.” Footsteps clip smartly on the floor, echoing. “Why does any one of you boys want to join up?”

“…I see you’re point. Apologies, Madame, I didn’t mean to offend.” Aramis’ voice is low and pensive. “…just don’t know how I didn’t see it before.”

“She’s very good at keeping things close to heart, she is.” Fabric ruffles. No footsteps.

Aramis sounds tentative. “What happened to her, to make her so ...desperate?”

D’Artagnan waits, the silence in her empty room weighing heavy on her chest. The tightened laces aren’t the only think making it hard to breathe as she strains to hear Constance reply.

“Just…be careful with her, Aramis. And yourself.” Her friend sounds so sad when she speaks, D’Artagnan wants to race to the stairs and sweep her into a hug, before she’s remembers it's her they’re discussing. “To be quite honest, I think the one thing D’Artagnan needs most, is someone who won’t leave her behind.”  

 

 "Who have you been speaking to?" The Captain is shaking in fury, barely contained.

Aramis looks on the verge of breaking. "It doesn't matter," Athos says calmly. Hs voice is rough and sharp and she has never seen his eyes so cold. She shivers, but its not from the rain. 

“What matters,” Athos’ voice cuts through the tension in the room, “is the truth.”

Something heavy in her chest misses a beat. She ignores it.

 

 

Constance leaves Marsac in a drunken heap on the floor, hand holding his bloodied face and moaning like a child. D’Artagnan bursts in just in time to see her dainty landlady wipe the boot knife delicately on the tablecloth before tucking it back into the folds of her skirt.

She looks up in time to see D’Artagnan in the doorway and blushes. “Well, it’s my second best dress! Not like I want his blood on it,” she defends.

 

 

In the aftermath, with the Duke gone, Marsac dead, and Aramis just a little bit shattered, he asks her what her name was in another life.

“Charlotte,” she whispers, the name feeling ashy and tasteless and all together too wrong on her lips. Just saying it again makes her skin feel paper-thin. “It was Charlotte.”

“ _Charlotte_ ,” he rolls the small word around his mouth,” is a fine name, for a fine woman.”

She smiles somberly and pushes away memories of a girl who doesn’t exist. “But not me.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (comments and criticisms make me write faster, wink wink nudge nudge)


	6. A Twisted Tunnel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Court of Miracles has keen eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beware: this chapter has a lot of things im not super happy about, beta-wise and content-wise, so fair warning.  
> I have a semi-graphic description of attempted assault, as well as slight PTSD from this chapter on. Its not nearly a light as the last few, and also not nearly as planned out, but i felt i needed a bit more danger for our girl considering with world she's trying to live it isn't exactly safe (or blind).
> 
> Anyway, sorry for the long wait! Here you go!

6

The Court of Miracles was the type place her mother used to tell her stories about. Not the good stories, but the type of story that was meant to make her fear the woods on the edge of their home. But here, the silent, cloying trees and thick fogs were twisted into the clanging of copper pans and the heavy silence that hung from the watchful crowd. The sick and dying and godless of the city all hovelling in one place. And yet, as she walks slowly through the rubble, eyes rolling over the piles of dirty rags (that she tries to pretend aren’t people) and the quiet, dead-eyed children who didn’t even bother to beg, her horror begins to blend with heartbreak.

Porthos knew these streets better than he knew himself.

That, she thinks to herself, is what truly horrifies her.

Athos is watching her closely. “He’ll be safe here,” he mutters under his breath, using a hand to guide her back the way they came.

“That’s not quite the reassurance I was hoping for,” she says, trying to ignore the wide palm warming her skin through her jacket. He doesn’t pull away until they’ve made their way tensely through the ghetto and back out into the market streets. She tries to ignore that, too. None of them seem to know what to do, Aramis especially, and they stand together outside the entrance to the Court, one man short. Porthos is quite a noticeable personality to miss.

D’Artagnan takes a moment to gather her thoughts, tightening her new scarf (a pretty burnt orange, softer and less irritating than her last discolored atrocity; a gift from Constance after an accident with her seaming left a bundle to be scrapped) and tucking the tail end into her jacket. She leans against the brick wall near the opening to the ghetto and watches her boys.

Aramis is wired and tense, the rims under his eyes making her heart clench in distress. He seems slightly smaller without his mountainous shadow at his side. (This is unusual, she thinks, because normally he is dwarfed in comparison to Porthos, but now he stands alone and untethered and she can’t help wondering how he can walk so steadily and still look so off balance.)

Athos, of course, is stoic in his distress, the harsh line of his brow low over his eyes and his brown hair slightly tangled at the nape of his neck. She wants to smooth the creases from his skin with her fingertips, just wipe away the anger always simmering under his features. The two musketeers are discussing something about a Madame de Bourbon’s house down the road, wondering if it can be used to pass a message through, when D’Artagnan feels a thin, claw-like hand wrap around her wrist.

“I see you.”

The voice sounds like the scrape of bark and the rumbling of gravel underfoot. She pretends she doesn’t squeal (she does) and looks down and sees what she previously thought was a compost heap, is actually a person; ruddy skin and tangled white hair emerging from beneath a gray hood. She pulls at her wrist in vain, the frail fingers wrapping in a vice-like grip.

“I see you,” the woman’s face stares up at her with white, sightless eyes, “I see you, I see you, I see you.”

D’Artagnan ignores the tremble in her voice and pulls at her hand again. “Let me go, Madame.” The hand grips her tighter and the woman crawls out from under her heap of rags. “I mean it, let me go, in the name of the King.”

“I see you, lovely, I see you.” Her skin burns. “Such a lovely new guard dog for his Majesty. Such a lovely, lovely dog.”

D’Artagnan finally frees her hand with a jerk, tiny red lines from the woman’s sharp grip bright on her skin. She feels her heart beating wildly and pushes down the urge to bare her teeth, feeling small and cornered as she steps away from the hunched figure watching her blindly. “Are you going to bite me, pretty pup?” the woman’s voice rasps, eyes rolling heavenward, white as bone. “Bite me with those big, sharp teeth. A rapid dog, you are--”

“D’Artagnan!” It’s Aramis, stepping up beside her. The old woman giggles and leans in, pointing at her. Athos is turning towards them, eyes sharply taking in the situation.

“Three swords for the King, three swords, three swords…” the woman is muttering lyrically. The air is thick with something, and D’Artagnan hurries to step back towards Aramis as his hand closes over her arm gently.

“Pardon me, madame, good day,” Aramis is leading them past the crone, when the blind woman reaches out a hand to grab at his belt. He seems to be having just as much trouble pulling free when she whispers “’member, lovely, the bitch bites the hardest.”

She settles back into her rags, humming. Aramis and D’Artagnan both freeze and glance at each other, neither of them even offended at the slur. Athos is almost upon them when she finishes humming out: “Three swords, three swords, and one pretty, pretty sheath...”

The whitened pupils look right at her. D’Artagnan is motionless, her boots stuck to the ground.

“Might not have the man’s blade, pretty pup, but you’ll wear those red hands well, just you wait. You got lots to _do_ with those teeth, lovely.” Aramis jerks at her shoulders and pulls them away from the entrance.

“C’mon, ignore her, D’Art, don’t pay attention to the mad ones. Keep moving.” Her feet feel like lead, but she tries to walk towards the alley with some semblance of grace. She hears Athos jogging to join them at the corner of the street. Aramis is a comfortable weight against her side, familiar in his protective stance. (She's still trying to break him of the habit of slapping a hand over her eyes when they need to enter brothels and such. "Protecting her from such indecency" tends to be his motto.) 

“Everything all right?” asks Athos as he falls in step. “Lucien, the man who works in the brothel down the way, says we might be able to pass on a message through one of the ladies.” He looks at her closely again, leaning in. “D’Artagnan? What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Aramis answers for her, thankfully. “Just one of the raving lunatics asking for the boy’s hand in marriage, nothing unusual.” He laughs, and it only sounds slightly forced.

Her heartbeat doesn’t settle for the rest of the afternoon.

 

 

 

 

D’Artagnan is panicking. Aramis and Athos have split off down different corridors, and suddenly she is running alone in the labyrinth.

She’s tearing through the cavernous underground levels of the Court of Miracles, heart in her throat, wildly searching for the gunpowder explosives waiting under the city when a hand wraps around her throat and slams her into a wall. D’Artagnan sees stars and her lungs stutter for breath. A heavy body is pressing her to the brick and she tries to reach around to grasp the knife in her belt but she can’t move her hands.

“Look a’ this dainty little fighter, boys!” A wet, sour breath washes over her face and she gags around the hand on her neck. She can barely see straight and her head is pounding, so she jerks a knee up sharply, hoping for a hit. Her sword clatters to the ground at their feet.

She connects, but it doesn’t give her any room. He’s so _heavy_. Her breath is coming in sharp little gasps and the weight against her shifts. Another set of hands pins her scrambling fingers back against the wall. She feels something crunch against the stone and tries to scream. Another hand grips her jaw painfully and forces her face towards the torchlight.

“What’s this? Such a pretty boy, ain’t he? Look at that mouth—“

“Hold him, I wanna teach ‘im a less—“

“Pretty little bit—“

A palm is running down her side, and she feels bile rise in her throat.

“Get _off, get—“_ her tongue is thick in her throat with panic and her head is swimming from lack of air. She can make out three large shapes around her, pressing in, morphing together and shaping a giant all-consuming shadow that laughs and laughs and she’s trapped _she’s trapped she’s trapped let me go let me go_ her teeth sink into something soft and she hears a shout of pain and something slams into her face and her suddenly free hand claws at the figure pinning her down and everything blanks around her (she can’t breathe she can’t move she can’t see) and warm, coppery liquid is wetting her lips and the wide palm of a man’s hand slides down to the front of her breeches, searching, and pauses—

“Well, well, well,” a coarse rasp in her ear, “not a pretty boy then, lucky lucky _lucky…”_

_No_ , is all she thinks, and she wraps her hand around a rough leather hilt sticking out of his jacket and bites down on the hand pressing against her mouth. Blood runs down her throat and the man screams as she sinks his dagger into the soft muscle between his shoulder and neck.

A roar thunders through the cavern and for a moment she feels weak and blind until she realizes the heavy weight pressing her to the brick is suddenly gone and the shadow has lifted, leaving her slumped against the side of the tunnel. Her gaze swims, but she can make out a familiar mountainous figure currently throwing one of the men through a wall.

_Porthos_.

Her mind blanks with relief. She stands on shaky legs to wander over to the nearest body crumpled on the ground where Porthos threw him. The skin on his neck is torn from her teeth, and his shoulder bleeds sluggishly, but he’s breathing.

When she comes back to herself, the leather hilt of his knife is glued to her palm with blood and his neck and chest are a gory, unrecognizable mess. Porthos is shaking her shoulder and pries the knife from her grip.

“Hey, hey now, D’Artagnan, stand up, look at me, breathe, breathe with me, c’mon, you’re all right now.”

She meets his eyes; his dark, sharp, panicked gaze flitting across her face like she’s about to explode, and suddenly she goes rigid.

“Porthos, the _gunpowder.”_

His eyes widen and he goes to turn before looking back. “Do you—“

“Forget about me-- _Go_.” He nods jerkily and disappears down the left fork, while she stumbles to gather her sword and clear her head, already jogging after him. She trips over the body of her would-be rapist, dead eyes open and staring, the criminal tattoo on his neck stark against his already paling skin, and she gags around the taste of his blood in her mouth before she staggers down the tunnel after Porthos.  She doesn’t look back.

 

 

 

Athos is staring at her.

D’Artagnan is intently watching from the edges of their group as Porthos leads them out of the Court, her back thick with tension and her mind wooly with the weight of her exhaustion. Her hand wipes unconsciously at her cheek, flaking away at what’s left of the dirt (and blood, even though she already scrubbed that off thoroughly in the aftermath). She’s not thinking of the attack, she’s not thinking of the tacky taste in her mouth, she’s definitely not thinking of her “new” leather handled knife stuck into a loose belt loop on her hip, fitting comfortably, like it belongs.

She’s trying not to think of much at all, really, as she feels the slow movement of her horse stepping gently over the cobblestone streets. The rolling tread is comforting. Aramis is chuckling at her other side, loose and relaxed now that Porthos is back at home in his orbit. The large man is holding onto Aramis’ horse by the bride, and D’Artagnan ignores his flickering gaze, too.

Athos is more determined, it seems.

“What happened?” he asks from her right, hat tilted down low as he speaks just above a whisper. He points to her face, where’s she’s still rubbing repetitively, and she drops her eyes to the road.

“I’m fine.” Her voice sounds distant even to her own ears. Athos is unimpressed.

“That’s not what I asked.” Suddenly they’ve switched their usual roles, him inquisitive and her taciturn, and she feels the aggravating urge to spill words out onto his lap just to get him to leave her be.

She opens her mouth with another excuse, but what tumbles out is a viscous exhale and a “can we …not do this now?” in a voice that sounds too broken in the air between them.

He watches her silently and must find something in her face, because he leans back and nods. “Just tell me one thing, and please, be honest.” She looks at his hands, strong and scarred as they grip the reins firmly, but she says nothing.

“Did someone—did something happen, in the tunnels?”

 Her lungs are very cold.

From her point of view, she can see the sharpened outline of the tendons in his hands as they clench tightly, taking her silence as the answer it is. “Are they…” he trails off, question lingering.

She shakes her head before he finishes, and she’s not sure if his breath is from relief or defeat. “I’m fine, Athos. It was nothing I couldn’t handle.”

He seems conflicted, but he nods. “Yes, of course, I know you can handle…yes.”

For some reason, the tension under her skin settles slightly, and she turns to look at him, nudging his leg with her boot. He flicks his eyes over and she feels the ghost of a smile on her lips.

He starts to return it, but it quickly melts off his face when he looks close.

“There’s some …blood in your teeth,” he mutters, and hands her a handkerchief from his pocket. She feels the color leave her face and she turns away to scrub at her mouth with the cloth. From behind her, Athos is quiet.

“I wish you wouldn’t try and hide so much,” he says to her back, before kicking his destrier gently and trotting ahead.

 

“Umm, …Monsieur D’Artagnan, uh, a Milady De Winter is here to see you?” Constance’s voice is thin and uncomfortable in a way she’s never heard before, and D’Artagnan raises a questioning brow at her friend when she opens the door. A shower and a warm meal are all she really wants, but apparently she can’t even make it all the way through the door before she’s interrupted. Constance is staring now that she’s taken her first look, and D’Artagnan cuts her friend off before she can ask.

“Right, um, …who?”

Constance is still staring, but she shakes her head and shrugs in answer. D’Artagnan sighs, the muscles in her back think and tense, the bruised skin starting to make an appearance. “Might as well get it over with,” she breathes out.

Constance places a gentle hand on her arm as she passes towards the stairs. “I’ll draw you a bath for when you’re done, love.”

“You are the _finest_ woman in all of France, I swear.”

The woman downstairs is beautiful is a way that seems too sharp, too calculated, predatory in a way that makes her hackles rise. D’Artagnan takes her in as she rises from her seat at Constance’s table, pulling off her expensive black leather gloves, the lace cuffs draping elegantly over pale wrists. Heavy lidded green eyes blink slowly, and her dark hair is piled on top of her head. Her blue silk gown and cloak could probably buy out the whole street, D’Artagnan thinks dully, and she tries to ignore the flutter of inadequacy that flicks through her as she remembers what she probably looks like.

“You must be the Gascon,” the woman says, gliding across the floors with a catlike grace. “I’ve heard quite a lot about you,” she pauses and visibly pulls her gaze slow and languid up D’Artagnan’s form, “but apparently not enough.”

She smiles with a feline satisfaction and D’Artagnan takes a small step back. Her body is on its last figurative leg of adrenaline, and so she disregards all statements of propriety and plops down in the end chair across from where the woman stands.

She is in no mood for mind games (especially standing about), and if she can judge correctly, that seems to be what the aim of this conversation will be.

“Right, um, Milady—“

“Milady is just fine, handsome,” the woman purrs, doggedly ignoring D’Artagnan’s rude slouch. “I’m here on behalf of a friend of a friend, I guess you could say.” She eyes D’Artagnan subtly, putting an extra _slink_ to her walk as she settles against the oak wood table next to her. Milady really is quite beautiful, D’Artagnan thinks to herself, but she can’t quite shake the nerves from under her skin. She feels like a mouse in a trap.

“I heard you did a very gallant thing today, monsieur, helping save Paris from an _evil_ terrorist attack. I wanted to express my utmost… _gratitude_. Who would _do_ such a terrible thing?” Her low voice is warm and melodic, and would probably gain her a lot of ground were her target a man, but all it does for D’Artagnan is make her tired.

She scratches her nose, trying to ignore how the rest of her body is itching. “Yeah, no, sorry, that wasn’t just me, the Muskete—“she stutters to a stop when the woman drags a soft hand along her jaw, leaning in seductively. Those green eyes widen innocently.

“Oh, poor dear, and look at all these scars! You must be very brave, why, I can’t imagine—“

D’Artagnan feels shaky and uncomfortable, the hand on her face bringing back flashes of shadowy figures and a coppery tinge in her mouth. She stands from her seat, dodging the woman’s advance with a sharp pivot and wiping her hands nervously on her breeches. The woman faces her, surprise on her features plain and obvious before it flickers back into that smooth, refined interest.

“Hmmmm,” she murmurs, staring for a long moment before she straightens her back and D’Artagnan is struck by how ridiculously out-of-place this woman is, and yet she finds a way to make herself melt right in. Looking at the high cheekbones and grand ensemble, she looks as if she belongs in a painting or a ballroom, and yet she blends into the shadows of the Bonacieux’s foyer with equal measure and grace. (D’Artagnan suddenly wishes Athos were here, he would know how to navigate this exchange.)

Milady is still studying her. “Pity, that. You’re so _sweet_.” she finishes, seeming to speak to herself before sliding past her towards the door.

“Be seeing you, handsome,” Milady calls over her shoulder, skirts hissing softly as they rustle against the ground. D’Artagnan is left standing in the center of the room, confused and drained, and feeling like she’s missed something very very important.

She pushes it from her mind (along with everything else) because the bath upstairs is suddenly calling her name.

 

That evening, Porthos is at the Bonacieux’s back door. Constance heaves a sigh and lets him in, hunched shoulders and all.

“If I’d known my house was the next bloody headquarters I woulda started chargin’ rent,” she gripes teasingly, ignoring the tension in the room. D’Artagnan smiles shakily at her friend and shuffles Porthos back outside into the cool night air. They sit on the back step silently before D’Artagnan speaks.

“I’m sorry about your friend.”

The bigger man shrugs, and D’Artagnan can’t help but remember how much smaller he looked in the Court, without all his heavy leather armor and shoulder guard. At the time, that made her sad, but now he just looks heavy with the weight of his uniform. 

“Yeah. Thanks.” He starts, then looks at her. “But that’s not really why I’m here.” She sighs and rubs unconsciously at her mouth against, the thick taste still stuck in her mouth.

“I figured,” she whispers.

“Those men, from…yeah. The bottom a’ the Court is where that sort usually live, its dangerous even for --and well, I wanted to---I just, you never shoulda had to—“ she puts a hand on the crease of his elbow, stopping his stuttering confession.

“You don’t apologize for them,” she bites out, and Porthos sinks low in his sink on the step. “I was stupid, and they caught me off guard, then _you_ helped me and you have _no_ _reason_ to blame yourself.”

“I—just..” She glares harder and he stops. “Are you alright?” he asks instead, gently.

“No.” For some reason, she wants to laugh. “But…I will be.” Maybe. One day.

He nods like her heard her thoughts and looks down at his hands. “I was coming to offer…well, I was gonna see if you wanted some tips on, well, hand-to-hand stuff? Like combat?” He sounds just so awkward it startles the laugh from her mouth. He hurries to explain.

“Not like you’re not a bloody good hand with a sword and all, just, I taught Flea when we were kids and its always smart to have girl’s learn a different style, right because well---“

She chokes on her laugh and freezes. “What do you mean—girl?”

He looks at her, confused. ”Like, technique-wise. I’ve been meaning to bring it up for a while just in case, ‘cause girl’s should always be ready to handle the different weight dispersion in a fight and I figured you might want…“

“No. Porthos, wait.” She interrupts him, speaking slowly. “How long have you known I was a girl?”

He still looks confused. “Well, not the whole time, around since your first week or so in the city, but I just figured you’d want to keep it quiet, an’ all--”

“Porthos, you _\---_ “she grabs his face with both hands and smacks a kiss on his bearded cheek. The tips of his ears turn red.

“I’d really like those lessons, now, if you don’t mind,” she whispers, and something sharp and angry bleeds out of her when he simply nods and pulls her to her feet.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feel free to discuss potential plot points you want to see and/or ideas! here or on my tumblr!


	7. An Impressive Defense

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am a mess of a human being. 
> 
> Here's a chapter three days before schedule (wheezing laughter) come AND TALK TO ME ABOUT IT i love me some feedback anyway here ya go 
> 
> P.S this is so ridiculously unbeta'ed i dont even wanna think about it, but i promise i will go through and clean it up in a bit im not usually this pathetic, but i apologize in advance yo

“No, no, shift your weight towards your right side, then twist. Do it again.” Porthos calls out from behind his spot in the shade of the practice yards, and D’Artagnan can’t help the growl of frustration that slips through her teeth. The hot sun is beating down on her mercilessly and sweat is dripping into her eyes.

Aramis grimaces from his frozen position half way through their attempt at a block, arms interlocked with hers. He’s down to his last layer, his dirty undershirt open at the waist as he tries to beat the Parisian summer heat. “Porthos, its sinfully hot out, can you please let me leave? You be the punching bag for once, you’re better at it.” His grip slides on her skin, and she makes a face of disgust.

“At least you get to practice with your fucking shirt off, you whiny little—“ she lunges for him, and he releases her arms as he scrambles away from her as Porthos laughs and tugs her back by the collar by her jacket. Were it anyone else, she would be embarrassed with the ease at which he holds her (one-handed no less, the beast) but its Porthos, so she accepts it gracelessly and hangs from his grip like a child.

Aramis grins and steps close to mutter under his breath: “How unladylike of you, my dear, such hellish cursing, a travesty!” He lays a flimsy hand over his forehead and swoons dramatically, and she can’t help but think the lace cuffs on the sleeves of his shirt only solidify the image. “Why, I don’t know if I can take anymore of this brutish behavior, and in my delicate constitution—Porthos, darling, take her away,” he flaps a hand weakly at her, ignoring her glare. She growls and lunges again, clawing towards his face, but again, Porthos jerks her back effortlessly.

“C’mon, leave off, you two. Focus.” He manhandles her easily back into the circle, and Aramis follows behind, still grinning. Both of them are bare except for their thinnest shirts and breeches, along with the rest of the guards in the practice yards, and she hates them for it with a passion of unknown limits. She's stifling in her layers and it left her in a shockingly sour mood. The thin leather of her vest is pulling at her skin, sweat and dirt sticking uncomfortably to her body as she moves. Thankfully, Constance had made her a thinner outer jacket to wear for the spring months, but the encroaching heat wave had taken them all by surprise, and left her in the thick fabrics that hid her figure from the regiment, but swallowed her in sticky warmth. 

Aramis found it endlessly humorous.

“Alright, D’Artagnan, try the lower block again. Start normal, and pace yourself. Remember not to lock your knees this time, and stay loose. Aramis, go ahead. Keep it fast, but light; I want to see h—his form.” She bends her knees as Aramis nods and steps forward, keeping her arms up and watching him closely. He circles her carefully before he feints to her left and cuts in under her arms, aiming for her stomach. She twists away quickly, dancing around his extended arm and darting in to jab at his side, landing a light hit and then catching his downswing in a block, arms braced tightly.

“Stop, good, right there, stay like that,” Porthos calls again, freezing them in position. She jerks her chin in a futile attempt to loosen the strands of wet hair from her face, but neither she nor Aramis break their stance. He’s looming over her, face barely a foot away under their joint arms, and makes a kissy face while Porthos studies her bearings. She snaps her teeth and he laughs. She can hear Porthos sigh in exasperation from behind her.

“Quit that-- god, you two are like children,” he says as he rounds to her side. “Alright, that was a good one, you’re doin’ well with the dodges and you’ve got a nice eye for catching openings in his defense—“he smacks Aramis’ head with the palm if his hand,” _which shouldn’t be so_ bloody _simple.”_ He finishes his rotation and steps close to adjust her bracketed arms, lifting her right elbow gently and tapping the inside of her right ankle to widen her stance. “Just keep your hips a bit more…” he hesitates as he stands behind her, and she can feel the awkwardness. She sighs as he stutters out, “ um… just, move that part—there.”

“You need to stop acting like I’m going to smack you with a fan if you get too forward,” D’Artagnan mutters while she adjusts her hips and feels a bit more balanced. “You’re making it look weird.”

Aramis shrugs from his attack stance. “Well, it is a little weird, you must admit.”

“Can’t help feelin’ like I’m gonna catch a broom handle to the face from a jealous husband,” Porthos states apologetically. “It’s ingrained.”

She rolls her eyes. “Just don’t be so obvious about it.”

The door to Treville’s office opens, and Athos and the Captain emerge out onto the balcony. Aramis and D’Artagnan step back from each other and head for the tables.

 “Alright, breaks over, you three, time for some real work,” Treville’s voice echoes through the courtyards with the acuity of a commander. Athos sweeps ahead for the stairs.  

“ D’Artagnan, Aramis, this one’s for you,” Athos calls easily, sauntering down the steps from the balcony. His head is free of the hat today, leaving his brown hair loose and gently blowing in the light wind. He runs a hand through the mess in a vain attempt to neaten his appearance, but it does nothing except draw D’Artagnan’s eyes towards the movement. He unbuttons the collar of his jacket, exposing his throat.

She swallows.

The strong hands she knows so well from her training swing at his sides as he steps off the last stair. He lifts his left hand towards his mouth, white teeth clenched tightly around the leather of his dark glove as he pulls it slowly over the pale skin of his hands. Heat pools low in her stomach as she watches the gloves slide over his knuckles and hang limply from his lips. He’s still talking, but the words sound muffled and loose in her head. It’ s all she can do to focus her mind on the tendons in his wrist as he tucks the glove into his belt. She takes a deep breath. ”It should be a fairly easy task,” he finishes, and her face feels flushed with warmth.

Athos is not beautiful, she thinks, as she watched his mud-brown hair fall into his eyes. Athos is _not_ beautiful, even as she stares at his hands, long, sharp fingers marked with age and skill. She studies his figure as he makes his way towards the group. His torn upper lip leaves his mouth in a perpetual smirk, arrogant and angry even when his posture shows his sorrow. His face is dour on a good day, and on a bad one he’s miserable. His brow and jawline are too heavy for classic beauty, leaving him harshly drawn with sharp angles and heavy shadows. There is nary a cloud in the clear blue sky of his eyes. He saunters with a rolling grace, predatory, confidence lined in every muscle, and even with his large presence, he slouches in a muted attempt to blend into the wall at his back.  There is something about his appearance that feels like the purple lines beneath his eyes, alcohol and gloom leaving him weary and deep, but his hands are steady on the buckles of his uniform, bindings slithering apart more at a suggestion than a touch. They are hands that have seen work, scarred and calloused, nails bitten to the quick under nimble digits.

Athos is not beautiful, she tells herself again, but even the voice in her head sounds unsure.

“D’Artagnan,” Aramis is saying from far far away, as she watches the bead of moisture slide down Athos’ temple. A strand of hair clings to his skin. “D’Artagnan, hello?”

She jerks back to reality in time to see Aramis’ smug grin across their impromptu circle. “Right, yes. Sounds good.” She says quickly, doggedly ignoring Aramis’ glee. Athos places a firm hand on her shoulder in support and nods.

“Good. You’ll both leave in the morning.” He looks at her with slight concern. “Don’t worry, you’ll be fine. It’ll be good for you. Get some rest.”

She nods, ignoring the heat of his palm on her sweat-cold skin.

 

D’Artagnan takes a long, long bath. Long enough that the searing temperature of the water is suddenly tepid and cool on her still-flushed skin when she opens her eyes again. Her fingers and toes are wrinkled from the tub and she dries quickly, leaving the dirty towel on the floor of her room. She goes to change into her vest and clothes again, but pauses when her fingers brush the leather.

She takes a deep, uninhibited breath. It’s a strange feeling.

For a moment, she wants to reach into the depths of her bag and pull out the single skirt and shift, the light, soft fabric (the only thing she kept from her clothing from home) and slip into the dress, feel the brush of the cloth on her skin- so different from the burden of her uniform, simultaneously lighter and heavier than the sword belted at her hip. She wants to pin back her hair, feel the silky softness of her curls as she dances around the room ( _so like your mother_ , her father whispers and she feels the ghosting touch of his knuckle under her chin _so like your mother you should smile more you look just like her_ Charlotte, oh, you look just like her so pretty so pretty so pretty).

(She sees her mother spinning around the room of their house, sunlight glancing off her long, long hair, she sees the soft smile on her lips and feels the kiss on her cheek. She sees her mother singing in the kitchen, and dancing with her brother in the fields and laughing and laughing and laughing and feels so light and happy and then she sees her mother’s body lying silent and broken in the garden as their house burns in the background and then she feels nothing at all.)

D’Artagnan takes another breath. The reflection in the muddied water of the bath shows her skin is clean and clear but she still feels metallic taste of blood in her mouth and scrubs quickly at her teeth.

Suddenly the open, looseness of her chest is too much, and she rushes to clasp the bindings on her ribcage, fingers trembling slightly. Her weapons belt is a steadying weight, grounding her as she buckles herself back together and when she steps out of her room, she pretends that she feels sharp and sturdy and whole again.

(She’s still very good at lying.)

 

                                                                                                                                               

 

Constance is chopping roots against the grain at the window when D’Artagnan walks in the kitchen. She sends a small smile in greeting before settling in to help, neither of them up for small talk, comfortable enough to continue their routine. They work in companionable silence for while, rotating around each other with a familiar sort of gravity, Constance’s humming and the rustle of her long skirts settling the buzz under her skin with the rhythmic plop of vegetables into the pot.

D’Artagnan is warm and distracted as she’s chopping away at the carrots for the stew when she feels a hand touch her wrist.

For a moment, the room falls away.

She reacts without thinking as her body flinches. When she looks up, Constance is standing wide-eyed and pale at arms length and D’Artagnan’s hand is holding the chopping knife like a dagger in defense.

“I’m, oh, god, I’m sorry, I didn’t—I didn’t get you, did I, oh, Christ-“ it takes D’Artagnan a moment to drop the knife from her grip (her mind is playing tricks on her, her fingers feel sticky and red and red and red) but she does. Constance is still a few feet away, but when the knife drops with a clatter to the ground, she leans down slowly to pick it back up. She holds it out, handle first, and sets it gently on the counter.

D’Artagnan’s skin feels like its on fire. She takes a breath.

“It’s alright, love, its alright,” Constance is saying slowly, hands lowering to her sides. D’Artagnan waits for her heart to stop hammering its way out of her ribcage before she moves. Constance steps back and gives her space. She takes a second breath. The details in the kitchen are starting to return.

“I’m, I’m fine. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—“

Constance interrupts her firmly, turning back towards the stew pot over the fire. “Stop that.” The line of her back is harsh in the dim lighting of the house, and for a second, under all her helpless panic, D’Artagnan is so incredibly grateful that its Constance standing across from her and no one else.

“You don’t have to talk with me, you know that. But I know something happened in the Court last week. I know you were hurt, and even if it seems…silly, or something—D’Artagnan, you need to—“ she stops, frustrated.  D’Artagnan feels an overwhelming mixture of guilt and affection for her friend, and speaks.

“I know. I want to, I do, and I promise I’m not …hurt or anything, I just feel…” she loses the words in the roiling mass of anxiety in her chest, but the tension in Constance’s shoulder’s melts away.

“I understand. You worry me sometimes, but I understand.” She turns back from the counter to look at her, her smile soft and gentle. “You’re my best friend, you know.”

D’Artagnan tries to return the grin. (She probably fails miserably, from the amusement on her friends face, but who cares, Constance is smiling, so nothing else matters for the moment. )

Constance steps to the side, opening a space for D’Artagnan to fit next to her at the window counter. “I know you don’t want to seem weak or…fragile, with the boys. I get it. But I promise you, no matter what happens out there, I will always be here.” D’Artagnan steps up next to her, taking the half-chopped carrots out of her friend’s hands and placing them in the boiling water. The hiss of steam sounds bizarrely like a sigh.

“I know. You’re my best friend, too.” She works her throat, trying to continue, to explain how warped and wrong she feels, how frail she is at night when she’s alone with her thoughts, how she is constantly torn between fighting and proving herself and doing something good and right and being better and more, and destroying herself bit by bit, scrubbing at her brittle skin until there is nothing left of her for the world to damage. She is balanced on the edge of the knife, and she’s terrified of what lies on both sides.

(D’Artagnan is not fine.)

“Secrets are never good for the soul, love. Sometimes you need to remember to let a few go.” Constance is watching her carefully. “But it doesn’t have to be tonight. Just…whenever you’re ready. I’ll be here.”

(But maybe she will be.)

Before she can say anything else, Constance spins to check the pot over the fire. “Alright, I need the garlic in the pot and then we can throw in those cabbages. My husband’s coming home tonight, so he’ll want a full spread. Chop, chop, quit dallying about, we’ve got work to do, let’s go.”

Something in her throat loosens, and she nods and cradles the cloves in her hands gently before dropping them in the pot. The sizzle of the broth is much more muted, this time.

 

 

         “So.  _Athos_ ….” Aramis drags the name out slowly, letting it hang in the air. “…would you call him  _rakish_ , or  _striking_ , do you think _?_ ”

D’Artagnan doggedly ignores the soldier at her side, focusing on the road ahead. She can almost see the edges of the village from here. Aramis continues gleefully, regardless of her lack of response.

“I would say he’s more rugged, but that broody quality does tend to catch a woman’s interest, don’t you agree?” 

She throws the stale crust of her bread without looking; she’s rewarded with an undignified yelp. 

"Well, now," he says from her side, sniffing as he dusts crumbs from his hat. "How utterly _un_ ladylike of you, how  _will_  you ever find a man with that attitude?”

“Aramis, drop it.”

“Come, now, I can see the appeal! All the scars and aggression, the fine figure, I mean, really.” He takes a moment to fan himself with his hat. "Maybe it’s a sign,” he kicks his horse closer to hers and leans out of the saddle, before continuing in a low voice “ that you should tell him the truth.”

She refuses to look at him. “Drop. It.”

“D’Artagnan,” he says, teasing all but gone from his voice. “You can’t keep lying to him. I can’t keep lying to him either.”

She sinks into her saddle with a long exhale. “I know, Aramis. And I hate that I had to ask you, but you know him better than I ever could. You know how he would react.”

“I do?” he asks, brow raised. “Please, enlighten me, then.”

She’s getting annoyed, and it shows. Her answer is sharp. “There are two things Athos hates in this world, Aramis. Liars and women.”

“And sobriety,” he interjects, raising his hand to correct her.

“And sobriety,” she accepts with a gracious nod. “Aramis, I am both a liar and a woman, and there is no reality in which he would forgive me if he discovers these truths.” She tries not to think of the possibility; she already has too many ghosts in her thoughts that hurt her these days, she doesn’t want to welcome any more. Her voice grows small.

“Allow me the gift of his friendship and trust for as long as I can keep it, even tainted as it is, please. If only that.”

He’s quiet for a long time before he answers her. “Maybe, D’Artagnan, it should be less about Athos trusting you, and maybe you should start trusting Athos?” He doesn’t sound critical, or even angry, but she doesn’t want to talk about it anymore.

She knows it’s selfish and cruel, but she’s gotten comfortable in the knowledge that good things rarely ever last.

“Aramis, maybe you should take your own advice on this, and ‘ _don’t get involved’_.” She clicks her teeth and sets off on a brisk lope towards the church, putting as much distance between her and her thoughts as she can.

 

Two days later, they get ready to set out after Aramis and a heartbroken Agnes with Henry tucked away in a blanket against Porthos’ chest. The baby is wailing away with abandon and she can see both Athos and Porthos starting to twitch as she saddles their horses.

“I can’t do it,” Porthos is holding the infant at arm’s length, as if the distance will make the crying any less grating on their ears. “I can’t fucking do it, someone take it away, I mean it, it won’t stop—“

Athos drags a hand down his face, slumped against the table in defeat. She ties the three horses to the railing with their reins and walks over, skirting a wide path around Porthos and his charge. She has no bloody clue what to do with a child, and she’s in no mood to find out.

“Um, Athos?” she started, tapping the back of his head where he’s doing his level best to blot out the wails. “Maybe we should bring Constance with us on the ride to meet them?”

He raises his head wearily, and she does her best to ignore the fluttering in her chest when he stares at her for a long moment.

“You,” he whispers dully, “are brilliant, in every possible way, and feel free to remind me of that, forever.” He rises from his seat and calls a stable boy over to send a message to the Bonacieux house, clapping a heavy on her shoulder and squeezing. She’s trapped between wanting to savor the touch and run away in terror, so when he walks off to get an extra horse for the road, she lets out a long, slow breath of relief.

“ _D’Artagnan.”_

She turns around to find Porthos inching towards her, still holding the crying baby boy in the same manner as a lit explosive or a rabid animal. “Can’t you, try an’ maybe, _do_ something?”

She sighs and takes the child out of his arms, holding him just as awkwardly as Porthos before setting him on the table where Athos was leaning only moments before. Porthos is staring expectantly as if her touching the child will have a magic affect. She looks at him, incredulous, before demanding, “What, you think _I_ know any more about this than you?”

Henry starts to hiccup miserably, kicking his legs around in a fury. She’s not quite sure why people seem to think babes are so beautiful, because this one’s face is twisted in wrathful tears. Porthos and D’Artagnan stare at the tiny child from the end of the table, uselessly, before Porthos says quietly: “Well, don’t women just--can’t you, I dunno…”

He makes a vague gesture towards her chest, cupping his hands, and she sinks an elbow into his stomach in response. She gets a lucky hit, he huffs over and wheezes an apology.

“Fuck, right, sorry.”

“You’re an idiot,” she says, unimpressed, just as Constance arrives in the yard.

(Constance says the same thing when she walks over to take in the picture: the Royal Heir screeching in anger, tiny fists raised, while D’Artagnan ducks surreptitiously behind a bent and gasping Porthos and their group leader hides in the shadows under the staircase. It’s all very impressive.)


	8. "Who Are You, Really?" (originally titled: A Vicious Cycle)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The funny thing about armor is that it doesn’t just keep other people out. It keeps us in. We build it up around us, not realizing that we’re trapping ourselves."
> 
> — The Unbound by Victoria Schwab

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright alright alright, let me have it. I’m a terrible updater. I spoiled you all with that first run and now you hate me. I deserve it. BUT IN THE MEANTIME I will gift you with three things in order to seduce you back into my clutches.  
> 1) sketches of how I picture our lovely heroine  
> 2) the song that inspired her hint hint chapter title^^  
> 3) and THIS. The chapter of OUTSIDE POVs. Aka i forgot to rewatch the Ninon episode and wanted to write about other stuff while i try and get my life back on track and stuff so whoops. 
> 
> (now, all you have to do is make it to the end of this chap, only hate me a little bit, and point out things that you liked and disliked in this one, deal? I will take your silence as the answer I want it to be.) 
> 
> Bentornato i miei pazienti lettori. Vi amo tutti basta farò macellare la lingua italiana per tutti voi. Dispiace wow questa frase è male. enjoy!

CONSTANCE BONACIEUX

 

Constance watches her friend from the entry to the kitchen as the other woman eats alone at the table. Her back is tense and the movement of her arm is fast and methodical, as if she’s afraid someone will steal her meal if she doesn’t wolf it down in time. But it’s not messy, if fact, it seems almost efficient, cleaning the plate down to its last drop. (Constance used to think of it as a compliment, that her cooking was better than most, but she’s begun to realize that D’Artagnan would eat a block of wood just as ravenously if they set it on a dish. Bit humbling, that.) D’Artagnan sits hunched, her already slender body shrinking in as small as it can go. It seems instinctual. Constance hates the spark of pity that ignites when she notices it. She knows D’Artagnan would hate it, too.

“Still on for tonight?” The other woman doesn’t glance back from her plate, simply asks the empty room before her. Constance jerks and blushes slightly at being caught unawares. She wonders how long D’Artagnan has known she’d been watching. She answers quickly to hide her startle.

 “Always, of course.” She steps fully into the room. D’Artagnan is almost finished with her meal but Constance settles down in the chair next to her, the rustle of her skirts breaking the comfortable silence. Constance has grown too familiar with silence, lately. Her husband hasn’t been home for a meal in days and her family rarely even sends word anymore, leaving her alone to be swallowed up in her own house. She grips her skirts tightly. “Can we practice the swords again?” she asks, and the words make the walls recede just a tiny bit.

D’Artagnan pushes her plate back and quirks a grin. _Such a lovely smile_ , Constance thinks to herself. If only her friend had more cause to show it.

 “Always, of course,” her friend parrots back at her, dark eyes sharp and amused. “You’re getting much better with the blocks, too. Still got that belt knife—“ Constance pulls it from the pocket in her skirt. “Good, bring it with you. I want to try a new move that I think might help both our guards.” She stands from the table and wipes her hands on her breeches, already stained from the days work. D’Artagnan cleans up her spot and heads for the stairs, taking them two at a time. Constance follows close behind. As usual.

                  ------- ------- -------- -------

A few days later, Constance enters D’Artagnan’s bedroom with a new set of linens, humming softly. But was she broaches the entryway, she starts. D’Artagnan is sitting quietly against the wall under the window, a heavy, leather-handled knife twirling in her grip. It looks thick and clumsy in her graceful hands, nothing like the slim belt knife Constance keeps close in her skirts. Her dark friend is silent and her eyes are very far away.

“D’Artagnan?” ( _Charlotte_ , the back of her mind whispers, because her mother always told Constance that the first time a soul dies is the moment someone forgets its true name, and that won’t do, that won’t do at all.)  “Are you…can I come in?” She can feel the hesitance in her voice. The younger woman nods from her seat on the floor, but doesn’t glance up. Constance tries to remember where she’s seen the heavy blade before, but nothing comes to mind. It must be new. She steps gently into the room, setting the fabric on the bed before carefully arranging herself on the floor across from her friend. They sit in silence for a long moment, both watching the dull gleam on the metal as it catches the light from the window. Finally, the knife is set down on the floor between their feet.

“My hair is getting too long.” D’Artagnan’s voice is contemplative and she’s still staring at the knife as if it might act on its own. “I wanted to cut it, but I…”

 Constance glances down at the old knife again as her friend trails off. Is it just a trick of the light, or does the hilt have a distinct, rust brown grit along its edge...

“Do you want some help?” she makes sure to keep her question calm. She feels as if this conversation isn’t just about hair, but she treads through anyway.

D’Artagnan nods. She looks up from the knife. Her heavy lidded eyes focus on the room around them. Something in Constance’s chest loosens and she takes her small triumph gracefully.

She settles closer. On the floor beside them is the dirtied orange cloth Constance had given her to tie back her wild hair, leaving the dark strands to fall limp around her face. They hit just below her shoulders now, even slightly tangled as is.

Constance brushes some of the hair back, gently. It’s very thick. “Should I just-“ she motions snipping and D’Artagnan shrugs, apathetic, careful of the lock still in Constance’s grip. The strand is thick and course and doesn’t seem at all easy to cut, especially with the dull, obscure knife near D’Artagnan’s boots. “I’ve got your small knife in my pocket, if that’s alright? It’ll cut cleaner. It’s better than that thing.”

“Sure, I don’t care,” she replies, voice low, but Constance sees some of the tension leave her shoulders.  They sit her on the bed and Constance spreads some of the fabric around her as a catch cloth, the dying light of the evening shining warmly through the window. She hums as she methodically untangles the knots in D’Artagnan’s hair and slowly, the heavy silence turns calm and comfortable, setting the cagey animal in D’Artagnan’s expression back at ease. After a few long minutes, she stands to gather her comb from her own bedroom, and returns to find her friend cross-legged on the bedspread, her loose, once-white shirt open at the throat and rolled over her elbows, as she tries to brush her fingers through the ends of her hair. The hard lines are gone from her face and the sunlight catches prettily in her loose curls, and for a moment, Constance is speechless. She forgets, sometimes, that this soldier before her is still a girl.

D’Artagnan looks up and catches her eyes, smiling self-deprecatingly. “I’m a mess these days,” she jokes, and Constance can’t help but wonder at the people who don’t see how truly striking this girl can be. With her hair haloed around her face, dark features highlighted by sunlight, the softness around her mouth and eyes—she looks otherworldly; some wild thing, a forest creature caught in this endless muck and filth of the city. (Sad and dark--- and sometimes if she’s honest with herself, a little terrifying-- but lovely all the same.)

She shakes herself out of those thoughts, tucking her own auburn curls behind an ear, looking instead at the tall girl on the bed before her. “Alright then, let’s see what we can do about cleaning you up.” She settles on the bad behind D’Artagnan and tugs the comb through and easily as she can, which, all things considered, is not very easy.

“Goodness, have you never brushed a day in your life?” she exclaims in her struggle. D’Artagnan shrugs and Constance can practically hear the clench in her teeth through the discomfort.

“Not recently, ah, ow, I haven’t really had time to think abou— _ow—_ about it since I— _christ_ , woman.” D’Artagnan turns and glares, and Constance can’t help but notice how utterly childlike she looks, so at odds with her usual glower, that she bursts out laughing.

“I’m sorry, love, I’m sorry—“ she takes a deep breath and tugs lightly on one of D’Artagnan’s tresses, “it’s just a little ridiculous, don’t you think?”

The woman ( _girl_ , her brains persists) rolls her eyes and blows roughly of a strand fallen in front of her lips. She lifts a callused hand to push it away when it inevitably falls back, and the long white lines that cut across the tan skin of her hand draw Constance’s eye. “Maybe we should just shave it,” she says, matter-of-fact, and Constance has to stop herself from wringing her hands and clutching at her heart in the melodramatic manner of her mother.

“You—sha—what—“ she sputters unflatteringly. Shave all this lovely hair? What a terrible waste, she thinks despairing to herself. But that won’t do for D’Artagnan. Beauty is of no consequence, especially concerning her own.

“Your head will get so cold!” Constance tries. “And—and, it’ll itch! What if we just braid it? That could work, right?”

“Never braided my hair before,” is all she gets in reply, but Constance takes what she can get, so by the time they’re done, Constance has braided one long, complex plait from the crown of D’Artagnan’s head to the end, where it rests on her shoulder. She pretends she doesn’t see her friend’s soft, indulgent smile as she leaves.  

 

 

PORTHOS-

 

D’Artagnan is a mixture of memories. She walks light and soft, delicately finding her balance in shadow and sometimes he has to stop himself from wondering at her potential for thievery. Small, quick hands, sun-darkened completion and rolling walk leave her unnoticed in the busy Paris streets. She is familiar to him in a way that should be unusual. Porthos sometimes watches her and sees his mother in her dark eyes, or Flea’s sly grin on her lips. But the harsh stance, heavily weighted down shoulders; it’s those dark moments when he sees only Charon when he looks at her. He pretends he doesn’t.

D’Artagnan is a shadow of a memory, bittersweet and tarnished (like most things in Paris these days), but precious all the same.

Training her to use her anger is like trying to hold water in your hands and drink; something always spills out. But watching her fight with a sword is like a goddamn vortex. If there is one thing Porthos can truly appreciate, it’s beautiful violence.

Sometimes in between those moments of here and _there,_ when she stares daggers into the distance and its all he can do to watch Aramis try and pry her back out of her shell, he sees her brittle smiles snap in half, those dark, dark eyes ( _hello mother_ ) crackling with fury. If Porthos is a hurricane, D’Artagnan is the brewing storm. In those moments, if he looks too closely, he can catch glimpse of that fierce, angry thing underneath. It’s like looking into a mirror.

 He tries not to look too closely.

 

ARAMIS-

“Porthos, it’s already established, alright: I’m the beauty _and_ the brains, _you_ can be the brawn. I’m sorry, but I don’t make the rules.” He leans back in his chair to dodge the glove aimed for his face. It’s instinctual.

The bigger man is splaying his hands out in bewilderment. “You literally just made that rule up. Right now. Here. In front of God and heaven.”  Athos rolls his eyes and stands from the table to hang his hat and coat by the fire. He takes D’Artagnan’s dripping cloak, too. Aramis bites his lip in silence when she doesn’t notice.

“This is your version of heaven?” Aramis asks, incredulous. He looks around the seedy tavern; overcrowded at days end, filled with smoke, loose money, and scantily clad women. He shrugs. “Eh. A bit more modern than Our Lord might expect, but I can see your point.”

“Ah, Aramis. The great Libertine. You and your modern brains have been pretty half-assed, from what I’ve seen, my friend.” Porthos raises a brow and nods to their small friend sitting between them, distracted as she watches Athos from across the room. “I hear the final reveal was a bit too...revealing? Don’t even notice a woman unless you’ve got a face full of her breas—“ D’Artagnan turns in time to smack him in the face with a piece of stale bread.

“You better hope you don’t find the words to finish that sentence,” she growls low, eyes narrowed. Porthos wipes crumbs from his eyes and grins, opening his mouth to respond, then snapping it shut when Athos starts to make his way back to his seat. A bubbling of guilt surges in Aramis’ gut for a moment, but he takes one last swig of the dregs of his wine to placate it. It works, a little.

Aramis is a man of the times. At least, sometimes. He’s a progressive, romantic, liberal academic, filled with God’s love and a good amount righteous fury at the state of his city. He needs to be needed, and right now, his city needs a more than just another vocal priest. But the times are changing, and so Aramis does what he does best and fills whatever roles that need filled. For Isabel, it was a calm, loving husband—but that didn’t work. Next, it was Porthos, who needed a bright light to chase away the encroaching darkness, and then it was Athos, who needed a brother to stand by his side. France has become just a shade less important, but he still gives it love.

D’Artagnan doesn’t want these things. Well, she does, but she doesn’t want to want them, and that makes everything a bit… messy. He’s working on it.

“’Nother round, sweetheart!” Porthos calls over, his thunderous voice slamming through the noise of the bar like a hammer. The barmaid looks drawn and worn from what looks to be a rowdy crowd, and Aramis feels a tinge of pity for the poor girl. She can’t be more than 18 years old. Barely younger than D’Artagnan. He tries not to dwell on that thought.

Porthos is shoving Athos on the shoulder across from him as he returns to the table. “You’re payin’ though. You still owe me for that card game last week.” D’Artagnan snorts, shifting forward in her seat across from them at their corner table by the fire. It’s been a wet, rainy few months in Paris and she’s taken to wearing an old, broad brimmed hat that hangs low over her face. It looks worn and used, just a shade too large, and he doesn’t ask her where she got it. He catches a peak of her smile from under the rim as she teases Porthos while they wait for the round. “You mean when you blatantly cheated and had not _one_ , but 3 face cards in your---“

“Hey now, you accusing me of something?“

“If you have to ask, I think you might have a bigger problem.“

Athos leans forward and rests his head on the table with a thump. “Third time this week he’s done that. Third time. I can’t bel _ieve_ I missed it again.” Aramis pats his back comfortingly; carefully not pointing out what else he’s missed. “There, there, Porthos is just very good at what he does. No need to-- oh, thank you, love.” The waitress sets three bottles on the table in front of them. Athos doesn’t lift his head from the table, just reaches an arm around and grabs the neck of one without looking. The waitress makes no comment.

“And for you, monsieur?” she turns to address D’Artagnan, who is in the midst of pulling her hat off and wringing it dry. The firelight catches her cheekbones sharply, and Aramis is distracted by the cut on her brow from training in the yards (‘it was an accident, really, Athos, _relax_.’) when he sees the barmaid bite her lip and give an obvious once-over. “Anything…you need?”

He catches Porthos’ eye across the table and sees him grinning, too.

“I’m good, thanks, miss.” D’Artagnan doesn’t even spare a glance at her admirer. She does make a pretty boy, Aramis admits. Athos sits up to take a drag from the wine bottle and Aramis watches as D’Artagnan follows the line of his throat as he swallows. Utterly ridiculous.

“Y’sure, love? Nothing at all?” The waitress’s tone is low and flirting, and something in the cadence pulls D’Artagnan’s attention up to the speaker. The bright blush rushing to his usually stoic friend’s face is enough to send Aramis over the edge. D’Artagnan stutters.

“Uh, I’m not, um—You, thanks, good I am—“

“You shy? No worries, handsome, I’ll just come back later, then.”

“Uh. Uh-hum.”

Porthos swallows a swig from his own bottle and nudges D’Artagnan’s shoulder. “Just sweep ‘em off their feet, you do.”

Aramis grins around the bottle at his lips. “Lady-killer.”

Athos is noticeably silent. Aramis grins a little at that, too. The good love stories are always a bit messy, he likes to think.

 

MILADY DE WINTER-

 

She watches her target from across the market, luxurious silk cloak pulled high around her face. He’s pretty, for a soldier. When she visited him in the merchant’s home, she expected something…less. Less angry. Less scarred. Less…roughened. She remembers his face when she stepped into the room, unaccompanied with the flash of awe or lust she’s grown used to. (Not even fright--sometimes those young ones do so fear a woman. How pitiful. )

All she saw was a boy left bloody, bruised and tired. And young, so very young. She remembers the feel of his eyes, though, cold and unfocused as she wandered the small room. It was quite sad, really. If she were any other woman, she might have even felt a flash of sympathy. But she is not other women.

The Gascon walks with a dancer’s grace, dodging around shoppers and merchants with the ease and caution of someone used to studying an environment. Young ladies turn to watch him as he passes, but his quick gate never stutters from its path. He could get all the girls, with a face like that.

And yet he doesn’t notice. Not even for her.

Maybe another …inclination? If that’s true, she’ll have to have quite a dilemma. That’s something to think on.

 He makes sure to dodge any accidental touches, sometimes cringing if someone gets too close. His head is covered with a thin scarf to hold back what seems to be a mess of hair, the long ends of the reddish fabric hung loose around his neck. Milady watches from the shade across the dyer’s walk as her mark makes his way towards the pretty merchant wife’s house where he’s renting. Something about the way his shirt and heavy jacket lay across his back suggests another heavy layer underneath. A bandage, perhaps? Maybe he’s injured himself, she thinks, leaning against the cool brick wall. Why so many layers in this weather?

He doesn’t quite walk like a man. No swagger. But he doesn’t walk like a woman, either--no sway in the hips. Something in between, though. Something animal.

She purses her painted lips. Something more to think on.

 

ATHOS-

Athos is a naturally skeptical person. But this is ridiculous. He must be getting paranoid.

These past few weeks, Aramis and Porthos have been skittish and secretive—well, Aramis has, he can’t actually tell with Porthos. He just tends to assume they float around on the same wavelength. It hasn’t been brought up yet and while it’s starting to grate on his nerves, it seems to be a personal issue. (He really doesn’t want to get involved in another lover’s spat. Really.) If it seems to get serious, though, maybe he’ll ask D’Artagnan about it. Maybe he’ll know.   

Something about D’Artagnan bothers him, too. Not in an overly uncomfortable way, just, an itch. It makes no sense, because out of everyone Athos has ever met, D’Artagnan, a simple farm boy who holds a sword better than most musketeers in the regiment, is the most loyal friend he’s had in a long time. But still. It niggles at the back of his mind sometimes, when he watches the twisting way he moves, all sinew and lean muscle. It’s almost feline in it’s fluidity, silent and nimble and Athos can’t help but be impressed with the boy’s natural talents-for he is talented. But it’s small things that have begun to irk him. His hands, for one. They’re too…delicate. It makes Athos nervous when they train, as if one false move might snap something. He knows it’s ridiculous, and frankly insulting--doubting a fellow soldier’s abilities and if D’Artagnan _knew_ , well, he’s fairly sure the only warning he’d get was in the few moments the boy would take while trying to decide which of Athos’ arms to rip off. The past few months have been good for his strength, Athos can tell, and they’re all grateful for it. It was frankly disconcerting, watching someone who looked so weak fight with such ferocity.

The boy can’t be more than twenty if he’s a day, and Athos can’t help but feel his eyes follow the slight form when it comes into view. It’s impossible not to. D’Artagnan moves like he’s not sure of the world around him, like even the shit-filled cobblestones of Paris are secretly a battleground, and Athos can’t help but think to himself how much a boy has to endure to be left so raw even a cool wind smarts.

He tells himself it’s natural curiosity. But then, he tells himself a lot of things. For instance, after the events in the Court of Miracles, with D’Artagnan returning from the catacombs with dead eyes, a bloody knife, and sharp sharp teeth, he told himself the clenched pain in his chest was just the bruises on his ribcage finally setting in. Or when D’Artagnan continually ignored the barmaids (and hollow-eyed men) that panted after him in the taverns at night, he told himself it was just the alcohol that left him so righteously sated. Or during training, when D’Artagnan’s sword would slip past his defenses like water and nick the cloth of his shirt in triumph, and a smile would spread across that face like the sun rising after a long, cold night, Athos would tell himself what he was feeling was pride. Just…pride.

So yes, he tells himself a lot of things. But Athos left his ability to accept hard truths somewhere behind his family’s abandoned chateau, dressed up in white and hanging from a rope on a tree, and like most things, it’s not a trait that readily returns from the dead.

 

This is one of the reasons he finds himself thoroughly distracted in his own head when a scuffle outside of a bar leads to screaming in the streets which leads to a loaded musket being pulled out by a man half-blind with alcohol which leads to stupid, _stupid_ D’Artagnan throwing himself in front of a passing woman in the line of fire, which leads to a gunshot and smoke and someone shouting in fear as Athos watches that familiar figure, limp and graceless for the first time, fall to its knees in the street. Oh. That’s _his_ voice calling out. Those are _his_ hands covered in the blood seeping out of D’Artagnan’s chest. That’s _his_ heart swelling in his throat as watches his name form on rapidly paling lips.

( _Athos. Athos. Athos.)_

It starts to rain.  

 ______

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://theworthofhollin.tumblr.com/post/85859062855/the-original-sketches-for-charlotte-dartagnan
> 
> LISTEN TO IT-  
> http://theworthofhollin.tumblr.com/post/84367951170/mikky-ekko-who-are-you-really-see-me-bear-my


	9. The Other Path

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The grass may be greener, but it still remains dry enough to burn." 
> 
> (D'Artagnan meets a kindred spirit)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MI DISPIACE MOLTO HERES PART ONE

_(the bright red flower is cradled in her brother’s palm and she sees him smile with the hazy, dreamlike quality of a childhood memory, brushed soft and warm around the edges as he presses it to her tiny chest._

Charlotte, look, your favorite color. _He’s breathing heavily even though the field isn’t far away. She feels the ghost of laughter bubble up from her mouth as she pulls the bloom close to her face, breathing deep. It doesn’t smell how she thought it would, and she runs towards her mother’s voice calling from the house with the weed crushed in her chubby fist._

_The red petals stain her palm and she never sees her brother sink to the ground behind her, gasping for air and clutching the tiny bite on his ankle._

_Later, much later, she will wonder why a flower smells like dead things.)_

 

D’Artagnan is floating on stormy seas. Every breath burns like the air is on fire.

“Athos, stand back _, stand back,_ I need space, Porthos—here, lay her on the table, everyone _clear out!”_

“Aramis, what—“

“ _Out_. Now. I need my b--”

“Here.”

“Thank you, Porthos. Help me cut the inner vest—“

“Inner _vest?”_

“Athos— _get back_ ”

Fabric tears and her side erupts in pain. She feels a scream tear from her throat, but hears no sound. A rough hand brushed her face.

“Breath deep, please, one more breath, look at me---“ she gulps air into her chest and something snaps under her skin and then pain and pain and pain and

 

_“Move your foot back, darling, like that. Balance.” She shifts, her bare feet sliding across cool dirt. Her father manhandles her skinny frame into a better position and grins wide and open when she settles low, her center sturdy and flowing like the gold wheat grass in the fields behind the house. It feels natural._

_“Can I use a real sword now, Papa?” The stick in her hand is weak and small and reminds her of herself._

_“No, love. You know the rule.”_

_She sighs and shifts her fragile grip. “Never use a weapon you don’t understand.”_

_Charlotte sees the wide grin on her father’s sun-brown face, and his rolling laugh echoes into the fields. “Good. Now, try again.”_

 

“—how long?” That was Athos’ voice. It sounded close to her side.

“ A few weeks. After the duel with the Duke.” Aramis’ voice came from her left. She struggled to lift the weight of her lids, but remained swathed in darkness. Her body felt disconnected and her head was choked with fog, but she listened to the soft room around her, detached and distant. Far, far away, she thought she could feel the clammy linger of fever-sweat on her skin.

“And Porthos?”

 “He says it was more of a gradual realization. In the Court it’s fairly common for women to hide themselves for safety.”

“But you both knew.”

“….Yes. But it was pure chance, she would never have—“

“You’ve been lying to me. For weeks.” A door creaked open. Heavy footfalls.

“…only a little.” She could feel the exhaustion bleeding out of Aramis’ voice.

 “It’s not like it should’ve been a damn problem either way.” That was Porthos. She wanted to reach out a hand and quell the anger she could feel boiling under his skin. “She’s not here to have babies. She’s here to fight. Who are we to decide her missin’ a cock is such a bloody issue.” His heavy voice gets closer to her head and she thinks she feels something cool and wet press to her brow. His storm is very dark today, she thinks distantly. D’Artagnan can smell the thunder.

“That’s not the point—“

“No. It’s not. The point is, that you’re having a fit because she didn’t coddle up and spill her guts to you first. Get over yourself.”

“Porthos—“ Aramis tries to intervene, but to no avail.

“She’s a girl. Great.  We’ve all got shit-filled histories, Athos, don’t pretend yours won’t be sitting heavy on your chest tonight. We’re all here for a reason.”

“It’s not the same, Porthos, you know that. This is _dangerous,_ how can I trust someone who—

“Trust her the same way you’ve done for the last four fucking months!”

The loud words are turning to buzzing in her heavy skull. The blackness on the edges of her consciousness starts to simmer and pull.

“I can’t just forgive someone who’s been lying to me since we met--to my face! And now you two have done the same! Was it a game to you? Have I become the fool again—“

D'Artagnan's chest hurts. She can feel herself sinking through the mattress.

 “‘Athos, please-“

She tries to take a breath before going under, but her lungs press down and she is swallowed whole.

 

ATHOS

Denial is achingly familiar in the way a deep bruise settles into skin.

The body lying in the bed is new to him, and yet the scars and muscles and freckles and divots are so recognizable he feels the ache surge in his throat to see them so still.  The face he has grown to know so well is unmasked and bare for the first time and on the inside it feels like the two halves of himself are at each other’s throats. Under all the heady fear, he knows he’s angry, he’s _livid_ ; but he also knows that screaming at the drugged and unconscious girl across the room is about as useful as trying to drink himself into oblivion. And oblivion is much more satisfying.  Tastes better, too.

D’Artagnan is not D’Artagnan. And yet, the person on the bed remains the same.

He takes another drink.

“Any change?” Aramis asks quietly from the door. Constance and Porthos are downstairs in the kitchen, where he can hear the murmur of voices through the floorboards.

“H—she tried to speak earlier, but I …don’t think the tonic has worn off yet. The broken ribs are still causing pain.” His words are only a little slurred. She had looked at him with empty eyes and whispered something he couldn’t understand, before passing out again. The bullet had gone through her left side, miraculously missing any vital organs, but causing serious fractures in some of the ribs and almost collapsing a lung. Still, the shot had gone through clean, so after the initial diagnosis and stitching, she would have to fight through the healing on her own. All they could do was wait. Athos was not used to waiting.

Aramis nodded and stepped around Athos’s seat on the far wall to walk across the room to the bed. He dipped a rag into the bowl of cool water and dabbed at D’Artagnan’s face with soft hands, and even in the dim lighting of the room Athos could see the lines pulling around his friend’s eyes. Athos watched as he gently turned her chin up to dribble water past her pale lips, all the while humming softly under his breath. It sounded like a lullaby.

“I’m a blind fool, aren’t I,” he mutters to himself, and Aramis pauses before continuing to wipe at the dirt on her face with the damp rag.

“Not really. It’s not exactly the first thing that comes to mind when you meet her, is it?” Aramis is looking down at her with a fondness in his expression that makes the drunken part of Athos’ want to hit something, while the sober part bubbles with guilt.

“Didn’t mean to yell. I just…how much longer will she sleep?” He flounders for words, nerves and remorse mingling with whatever rotgut he’d been swilling. Aramis just nods and steps back after pushing a strand of hair away from D’Artagnan’s sleeping face. She sighs and mumbles something, and they both hold their breaths and wait, until she settles back into unconsciousness.

“It shouldn’t be too much longer. I figured it’d be easier for the internal wounds to heal if she slept through the worst parts. Maybe a few more days for everything to …settle. Her body has been through a lot, and she needs the rest.” He claps a tired hand on Athos’ shoulder as he walks past him, and the doors snaps shut with a tense finality. Suddenly Athos finds himself alone with his slow thoughts. Well, not alone.

D’Artagnan’s skin is pale, but for the flush of what’s left of her fever. Her hair, longer than he’d previously realized (all those heavy layers and headscarves are making a frustrating amount of sense) is tangled and spread out around her face, and he looks at her now and can’t understand how he missed something so obvious.

Her sharp, angular features are softened with sleep, and the ruddiness in her cheeks gives the illusion of a tinted blush. Without the harsh lines around her mouth and the angry pull in her brow, she almost looks… timeless, like a portrait come to life. And yet, painfully, painfully young.

His stomach is twisting and writhing like some coiled creature, and Athos knows it’s not the alcohol. The room is stifling, and the walls hug close as he tilts himself out of his seat and treads across to the bedside.

                 The hand hovering over her arm feels disconnected, slowing over where her scarred palm is loose from the tangle of sheets. Athos leans forward, instinct reigning strong, and brushes a callused thumb over the skin of her wrist, slowing dragging up the freckles scattered along the appendage, hovering over the collarbones to halt at D’Artagnan’s stubborn chin.

Athos releases a slow breath and lets himself wipe away the tiny drop of water on her bottom lip, resting on the edge of the familiar mouth that hides in an unfamiliar face, left over from Aramis’ ministrations. The monster in the pit of his gut roars to life.

 

 

 

                  “Give me orders. Something, anything to get me out of the city.”

                  Treville looks at him long and piercing, but Athos doesn’t budge. “Wouldn’t you rather be here when D’Artagnan wakes—“

                  “Captain.” Something in his voice must highlight his unsteadiness, because Treville nods, handing over one of the many letters on his crowded desk with a sigh and a careful farewell.

                  Athos leaves the city with a full pack on his horse and training squad of Musketeers, and far away, in a sick room with a soldier singing hymns under his breath and another lying on the bed with a hole that they say just missed her heart, D’Artagnan opens her eyes.

 

 

TWO MONTHS LATER

 

Madame De Larroque ‘s solar is glorious, and D’Artagnan is in awe of the everything from the books stacked high along the walls to the sumptuous gowns on the beautiful women spread about the room. It’s been weeks upon weeks since Aramis has allowed her out of her room, waiting with baited breath for any sign of infection or clotting. Half of those days were spent in forced slumber (drugged to the gills with herbs and medicines and nightmares), due to D’Artagnan’s inability to sit still and not tear at her stitches. After an even longer recovery, just walking around the city feels like an adventure in itself.

The street parade was meant to be her recovery mission, a stepping-stone before resuming full-time training, but with the broken body of the servant girl in the road and Constance’s grief-stricken request, recovery time was a distant, useless thought.

So D’Artagnan takes in the beauty of the room with badly concealed wonder- even the flat sky painted onto the ceiling shines brighter than anything she’s seen in days. The women look almost otherworldly, like the deities in her mother’s tales, gracefully absorbing the language of the stars with delicate lips and hands flipping pages in heavy tombs.

 

D’Artagnan feels distinctly out of place with her dirt-stained skin and bulky bandages wrapped tight around her ribcage. She feels brittle and weak, like a broken vase clumsily taped together.

“Wow. This is…” she fumbles for words. Porthos grunts in agreement. He and Aramis are at her sides, and she can feel the raised brows and smirks they share as they take in the room. The space between them is loud in its emptiness, and D’Artagnan tries to ignore the curl in her stomach that comes with the thought of their absent cornerstone.

 

Waking up to an empty bottle at her bedside was painful enough. Knowing he’d left because of her? Sometimes she wondered if the bullet had truly missed her heart, or if Athos had found another way to make her bleed.

The Lady Ninon glides her way across the room. Her golden hair piled heavily on her regal neck, the sheen of lace that spills across her shoulders; even D’Artagnan is tongue-tied for a moment. Aramis stepped forward with a flourishing bow and sweeps off his hat.

“Madame De Larroque, forgive us our boorish intrusion.” His melodic voice carries well in the open chamber, causing a light flutter of interest to roll through the assembly. Porthos catches D’Artagnan’s eye and looks to the heavens in exasperation. She bites back a grin.

“We are here on behalf of His Majesty the King, and if you would be so—“

The Madame in question cuts him off fluidly. “I know who you are. I have often seen you in court, though frequently led by another…” She glances at each of them in turn, landing on D’Artagnan last.

“But not you.”

“No, my lady,” D’Artagnan says quietly. “I am not yet a full Musketeer, and as such, have not been formally presented.”

She hums and steps forward, barely a hair closer than propriety dictates. D’Artagnan holds her ground. The Comtess is only a few inches shorter, but her gaze is sharp and uncommonly clever.

“I should think so,” she says, curious, “as I would not easily have forgotten such a face. What is your name, soldier?”

“D’Artagnan, Madame.” Her look turns inquisitive.

“Ah, so you are not from our good city. I must say, Sir D’Artagnan, there is a wild aspect to your looks that I find ...intriguing, but alas, it is probably only male savagery.”

She can hear Porthos’ snort behind her, and tries to force down the flush she can feel on her neck. D’Artagnan straightens her postures and replies drily:  “Apparently my savage countenance is what drew your eye, Madame, which says more about you than I, some might say.”

The room is silent in shock, but for Aramis’ low grown of frustration. Whoops.

The Comtess purses her lips, and at first, D’Artagnan fears the inevitable public retribution, but then the quiver at the corner of her mouth reveals hidden amusement. “Only some?” she says, deadpan. “I shall have to try harder to declare my inclinations, then.”

“Oh, I like her,” mutters Porthos.


	10. The Advice of Princes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s a beast in her chest where people expect to see songbirds; how can they pretend she is still good in a world filled with such a need for teeth?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IM BACK HELLO I MISSED THIS
> 
> this holiday season should be pretty good for the muse so i'm trying to jump back into fic writing again. Lots of stuff happened in the wayside but that not important--ya know what is? LADIES. LADIES ARE SO IMPORTANT. so please. enjoy some ladies.

Her nightmares are velvet soft and searching. (and filled with fire.)

In her dreams, a ghost reaches out with black fingers and whispers “Charlotte”, so sweetly, likes she aches all the way through her bones, all the way down to the meat of her heart for two syllables and a name that’s long since gone. But in the dreams she says it again, quiet, like a secret, just in the moment before the flames lick up her throat and strangles her voice into silence.

(D’Artagnan knows this is a lie, of course. Her mother surely died screaming.)

She wakes before dawn with the taste of soot on her lips.

 

\-------------------------------------------------------

 

On the other side of the city, the edges of the sun barely creeping over the horizon, a group of musketeers trainees stumble out of their saddles and sink dust covered boots into the muck of the garrison yards. When his men start to unpack, Athos lifts his face to the soft spray of morning rain.

To him, the city feels like its holding its breath.

The Musketeers Garrison yard is empty this early in the morning, and Athos and his trainees slowly make there way home under the smog-filled dusky skyline. After so many weeks in the woods, the stink of the city is stifling, and Athos (as well as his men) keeps his scarf over his nose in defense.

He tilts his hat up, the misty drizzle starting to pool at the brim, and takes in the shadows around the yards until he sees one move. Ah. Not as empty as he thought.

“Rough road?” Porthos asks, grinning as he steps out of the dark. He looks as if he's been sleeping on a bench somewhere, so this is nothing new. Something in Athos’ chest loosens at the smile and he tugs his scarf back down under his chin, ignoring the citysmell clogging his throat.

“Nothing we couldn’t handle,” he says as he swings his pack over his shoulder. He tries not to search the corners of the yard, but he can feel his gaze starting to wander about. He pretends its instinctual. Porthos glances at him and his grin pulls wider.

He claps a heavy hand on Athos’ back enough to rattle his sore bones. “Good! Because you’ll need all the energy you can gather for the day, my friend. You’ve got quite an uphill battle to fight, hm?”

Athos feels his neck flush under his coat and thanks his lucky stars he’s still wearing his hat. “She's--D’Artagnan is fine, then?” His voice is deceptively innocent, and he doesn’t look up from where his hands are untying his bags from the saddle.

Porthos sounds very smug. “Fit as a fiddle. Been out of the sickbed for weeks. If I didn’t know any better I’d say it was bloody witchcraft.” He barks a laugh and pulls his hand away. “Still pissed at you, though.”

“Right. I’ll just--” he gestures helplessly, and tries to ignore Porthos’ delight.

“Use some sweeter words, my friend, ‘cause I don’t think she’s much for flowers, yeah?” Athos nods, the weight of the impending confrontation heavy on his back. Sweet words. Right. Because he’s so—good. At that.

He’s sure it’ll be fine.

 

\-----------------------------------------------------------

 

“What’s got you in such a shine this morning?” Aramis says breathlessly as he dodges her sword and whips around her defenses. D’Artagnan counters thoughtlessly, the ache in her side almost entirely gone, leaving her buzzing with energy. The rain had cleared from the night before and the sun was just peaking out over the edge of the city and for the first time in weeks, she felt _good_.

“What do you mean?” she asks, sidestepping and taking quick advantage of his overreaching thrust, dancing around his attack and swatting his backside with the flat of her blade.

He yelped indignantly and stepped back to rub at his breeches, glaring at her. “ _I_ _mean_ , your sunny disposition. Which I’m starting to dislike.”

She stretchs her arms over her head, the sharp pull of her sore muscles dulling which each smooth movement. “I don’t know, really. I think I just like having my body back. I don’t really hurt anywhere.” The tender spot just above her heart pulsed, as if it knew it was being discussed. She presses her hand to it in a vague attempt to steady herself. “It’s an unusual feeling, I have to admit.”

Aramis huffs, before swatting her hand away from its place on her chest. “I can imagine. Don’t strain yourself, now. I know how you get and I don’t want you pushing yourself and being reckless. No matter how good you think you feel, you’re still healing, right?”

Bumping her hip against his, D’Artagnan grins and wanders over to the benches, calling out over her shoulder “Now, Aramis, when have you ever known me to be reckless?”

“I wouldn’t answer that if I were you, mate.” A familiar voice answers from the gateway tunnel. Two figures were silhouetted against the backlit entryway, until Porthos took a step into the light of the practice yards. “We can’t afford anymore wounded men in the garrison, not when we just got one back, I’d say.”

The second figure pulls off his hat and moves into the light beside Porthos. D’Artagnan’s calm sputters out like a candle in a windstorm.

Athos stands less than 5 yards away, looking like a wet dog. (Not actually, considering-- it’s _Athos,_ but from his ridiculously stately posture and the white knuckled grip on his hat, it was basically the closest equivalent. No one else could be that dignified without being guilty, and if Athos could pull off anything, he could pull off guilt.) 

Aramis and Porthos stand guard at either side, leaving them in a weirdly spacious square, both obviously waiting for her response. Aramis looked nervous; Porthos, gleeful.

“Long trip,” she remarks, questioning, her voice sounding steadier than she felt. She feels a boiling heat start to turn in her lungs, but she can't stop herself from drinking in the sight of him. He looks so...worn.

“Yes. Very.” Athos answers quickly, before visibly steeling himself and stepping closer. “And your…” his eyes dropped to her heart, zeroing in on the spot were the bullet had gone through. “Your wound, is it—?“

D’Artagnan nods, jerky and sharp. “Great, thanks.” She slams her sword back in its sheath and turns to grab her jacket, ignoring the ache in her chest that had nothing to do with the hole over her heart. “If you’ll excuse me, I have somewhere to be.”

Ignoring the obvious confusion around her, she roughly shoves on her jacket and sweeps past them. She barely makes it out of the tunnel before she hears the footsteps and a hand brushes against her arm.

“D’Artagnan, wait—“Athos jerks back, almost stumbling in order to avoid running into her. Something in her rumbles in satisfaction to see him so off-balance. 

“ _What_.”

“I— thought we should talk. About things. And…” he trails off as she stares.

“And?” she urges, expectant. He scratches the back of his necked before continuing. “And…things.” He winces.

“That’s unfortunate.” Athos is standing much closer than she’d realized. She steps back, her boots crunching over mud and gravel in her haste. “Because I feel you’ve already been quite articulate on your feelings about…things. You didn’t even have to say a word. You just—“

Her voice is shaking. She takes a deep breath and adjusts her swordbelt.

He shifts again, and she could put him out of his misery, could finish the thought, get to her point. But it's true what she’s been saying, overtly and covertly, over the past few months: she may be a girl, but she isn't kind. She never has been, but that’s not the point. She's capable of kindness, can pull it out when she needs to, knows how to work it as an angle or apply it as a tool, but it's not her default state. It doesn't mean she doesn't care about the people in her life--if anything, she cares too much, selfishly, in a way that pushes past the acceptable boundaries of investment into territory that's often uncomfortable. Kindness, she has come to realize, has nothing to do with that. Kindness is about putting other people's feelings before your own, and oh, how she does hate to pull her punches.

“—you just left. Like everyone else.” She walks away before he can respond.

 

\-------------------------------------------------

 

“You look troubled, monsieur.” Ninon’s skirts rustle softly against the smooth wood floors of her upper library. D’Artagnan can hear her sweeping along behind her as they peruse. The invitation to the lady’s manor was a bit unexpected, and had made D’Artagnan hesitate at first, but there was no polite way to decline. Besides, there was something about her—the spark in her eye, maybe, or the way she spoke such simpering words but with a bite so sharp it could draw blood. D’Artagnan had never been so curious in her life.

“Rough morning, mademoiselle, nothing more.” She wavers for a moment, then pulls her heavy leather gloves off so as to better feel the bindings on the shelves. The cool air is lovely on her blistered palms. “Is it so obvious?”

There is a thin book on the end of the shelf, wedged between to heavy tombs. _The Prince._ Machiavelli. Her fingers pause over the brown leather.

“No, of course not.” Ninon steps beside her and pulls the small book out from its hiding place. “Nothing about you is ever obvious, I should say. Maybe that’s what makes you so interesting.”

She brushes dust off the cover and smiles. “Niccolo Machiavelli.  Such a man’s choice. (D’Artagnan’s hand twitches, very slightly) One gentleman's advice to another on how to best to control a body—of people, that is.” She sniffs daintily and D’Artagnan feels a smile pull at her lips. _Constance would_ love _you_ , she thinks.

“My father read this to me, once. He thought Machiavelli was quite articulate.” 

“Not completely useless.” Ninon laughed before reciting effortlessly: “‘ _I’m not interested in preserving the status quo; I want to overthrow it_.’ _”_

The small smile pulling at D’Artagnan’s mouth stretched wide, and for a moment she almost didn’t notice, her chapped lips so unfamiliar with the expression.

“ _Men in general judge more by their eyes than by their hands, because seeing is given to everyone, touching to few. Everyone sees how you appear, few touch what you are,”_ D’Artagnan recites back, and Ninon smirks before a pausing, a thoughtful gleam shading her gaze. She watches with keen eyes and suddenly, the sharp, assessing look melts into shock. “ _Oh_ ,” the older woman breathes out, and D’Artagnan freezes as Ninon steps forward and grips D’Artagnan’s face in two pale, delicate hands, and stares in wonder.

“ _Oh_.”

“Um.” Did she say something wrong?

D’Artagnan tries to pull away in confusion, gently, but Ninon follows her step until the two of them are caught in a stilted dance consisting entirely of D’Artagnan trying to escape. Suddenly the other woman swoops around her in a circle, taking her in from every angle with another delighted laugh.

“I would never have—Oh my, why this is just—oh.” She claps two graceful hands over her mouth and D’Artagnan is still standing stiffly, at a complete an utter loss.

“Um. Milady—?”

Ninon waves a hand to brush her words aside. “Oh. You, monsieur, are _good_. Or should I say—mademoiselle?”

 

D’Artagnan doesn’t say anything for a long moment, before: “Fucking hell _. Really?_ ”

 

\---------------------------------------------

 

The story spills out behind locked doors. After the initial shock, it’s almost a relief to tell someone on her own terms, her own words gracing an ear that _wants_ to hear such things. No betrayal, no anger, no fear—just… delight.

“And you’re on your way to becoming a full Musketeer already?” Ninon is beside herself in excitement, the once poised Woman of the House veneer melting into a girlish wonder, hanging on every word. “I’ve seen the men of the garrison fight, you must be a notable skill with a sword. Oh, tell me again how poor Aramis found you after the duel, no-no, tell me how you and Constance snuck the baby out of the lair—” her glee interrupts itself and she claps a hand over her mouth in embarrassment. Her gently curled blonde hair catches the afternoon light as it sinks through the tall window in the library, and D’artagnan notices several strands are floating loose and frizzled, as if her head cannot contain all the thoughts trapped inside.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, I’m being ridiculous. I’m just, so _interested_! You kept this secret for so long, why, what a toll that must take on you, especially doing such a dangerous job.” She collects herself and slides a hand over her hair in a vain attempt to hide her thrill. D’Artagnan smiles again, she doesn’t think she’s smiled this much in months, goodness, and pulls her hat off her head, untucking her braid from under the scarf so she doesn’t feel so stifled. Ninon watches the process keenly.

“It’s so obvious, now,” she breathes out, staring at D’Artagnan’s hands as they work before glancing up in interest. “What do your soldier boys think of you?”

D’Artagnan’s hands twitch slightly from their position in her hair. “Ah,” Ninon says, nodding, an understanding look in her eye. “I see.”

“It’s…complicated.”

She snorts, a decidedly unladylike reaction that makes D’Artagnan bark out a laugh.“ It always is, when men are involved.”

“It’s not conscious, I don’t think. Just, sometimes, they look at me like they’re waiting for me to break under it all.” She drops her braid onto her should and tilts her head back to feel the sun through the window. Ninon listens expectantly.  “Not maliciously. I think it’s a habit of upbringing, or culture.”

She exhales, still playing with the ends of her hair. “Sometimes, I think they expect me to change, to reveal the rest of myself, now that they know I’m a girl. As if I’m still more woman than this, hidden somewhere under all...” she flails at herself vaguely. “--this. Like I’m still faking. I know they don’t mean it, but…”

Ninon finishes her wandering sentence. “—it bothers you. Of course it does. They need to learn that you more than enough just as you are.”

D’Artagnan can’t say anything for a long moment, too busy swallowing down the feeling of her heart bursting in her throat. That’s the thought that’s been bothering her more than she would like to admit. That, that _purity_ —the sweetness that her men seem to associate with her, unintentional as it is—it hurts. She’s not pure. She’s a liar at heart, selfish and angry and stained with too much blood to be anything more than what she is.

D’Artagnan glances over at Ninon again, the other woman watching her thoughtfully under the soft backlight from the window, the sun catching in her hair and along the golden pendant dangling over heart. The gilded wren looks so delicate.

The hand playing idly with the end of her braid, unconsciously, drops down to brush over the same spot on her torso, where in place of a wren there are only scars. The thought doesn’t make her sad, not anymore. She’s knows exactly what she is, and what she isn’t.

There’s a beast in her chest where people expect to see songbirds; how can they pretend she is still _good_ in a world filled with such a need for teeth?

“D’Artagnan, my dear, can I ask you something?” Ninon’s voice is soft as it pulls her from her thoughts. She glances up and nods.

“Can I see you fight?”

D’Artagnan’s laughter bubbles out of her chest in surprise, again. She really shouldn’t be shocked—of course the only two women in Paris who see her as _her_ would be of the same caliber of woman.

“You know, a duel sounds right up my alley, today. Why not?”

 Ninon smiles gratefully at her, so needlessly happy, and D’Artagnan feels the beginnings of a blush creep up her neck. “ _What_?” she mutters, irritated at her own awkwardness. The other woman giggles and it sounds like bells. (D’Artagnan tries not to hate her for that.)

“Ah, its nothing, really.” She lifts her hand daintily to her mouth to hide her grin, and D’Artagnan narrows her eyes. Ninon only grins wider and continues. “If only I were to know a man half as bold as you, my dear D’Artagnan, why—I would surely not remain unwed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter--things get heated. 
> 
> (heh.)


	11. History Repeats Itself; Someone Says This

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The only way to deal with an unfree world is to become so absolutely free that your very existence is an act of rebellion." — Albert Camus

Chapter 11

 

Far, far away, a man yells something about God.

D’Artagnan took a deep, uninhibited breath and tilted her head back against the wooden post. The sun was just barely sunken below the edge of the courtyard walls, but the sky was still a soft, robin’s egg blue even this late in the day. The thin cotton dress clung to the sweat on her skin, and her hair, unbound, floated in the breeze and tickled her throat lightly. Her heartbeat thumped so loudly she thought that if anyone were to come close enough, they might hear it.

But no one was coming. D’Artagnan already knew that.

She closed her eyes and took another breath, trying in vain to distract herself. She could smell the light scent of honeysuckle on the breeze, the sweetness of pinewood, the warm scent of the sunbaked stone of the abbey walls. On another day, this might be quite lovely, she thought. On another day, it might remind her of home.

Maybe it was the flowers. Or the feeling of her bare feet coated in hay dust. Maybe it was the birdsong fluttering through the trees.

Maybe it was the smoke.

 

* * *

 

           

The red guards on rotation were slow and bored, stuck on abbey walls outside of the city with nothing to watch but treetops. The rotation they used was organized to defend against armies, built for battle and long combat. But a girl was not an army.

In fact, once she’d taken off her boots, she was better.

It took her ten short minutes of scaling the back wall and slipping through the servants quarters unnoticed, before she arrived at the only occupied cell in the dungeons. Her bare feet were cold and quiet on the stone floor, and she wrapped her knuckles against the iron bars before hissing to the huddled white shape inside.

“Milady?” No answer. She whispered again, wary of the way her voice echoed in the dankness of the lower levels. The guard posted around the corner was dumb, but not deaf.

“ _Ninon_. Wake up.”

The figure suddenly unfolded itself into the light of the cell, blond hair shining brightly in the shadows. In the back of her mind, D’Artagnan thought she looked quite like an angel. The look on the woman’s face reflected the same.

“D’Artagnan,” she whispered, wide, shocked eyes flicking up to the doors at the end of the hall. The guard would be changing in only moments. “Oh, D’Artagnan you shouldn’t be here. The guards—“

D’Artagnan grinned sharply, the unfamiliar pull of muscles making her look just as manic as she felt. “—are all sleepwalking through their shifts, of course. How many even saw you on your way into the dungeon? Three, four at most?” She twisted the padlock on the cell door around so the face was tilted towards the meager light, hands shaking only slightly. “They didn’t see you as a threat.”

D’Artagnan reached into her jacket pocket and procured a small set of metal needle teeth tied together string, tapered ends shining brightly in the dull light. Porthos had given her his old set of lock picks, and thankfully she’d been practicing. “That’s some good news for us, at least,” she muttered, speaking around the two picks held between her lips. Ninon leaned her face close to the bars until they were only inches apart.

“They put me in a black hood, I couldn’t see a thing. I’m sorry,” she whispered, frustration evident in her voice as she watched D’Artagnan work. “What are you—“

“The boys are on their way to the Cardinal’s chambers to plead your case. They weren’t far behind me.” She bites her lip as she jimmies the widest pick deeper into the lock, the mechanism sticking just enough to make her struggle. She furrows her brow. “I don’t—I don’t know how much luck they’ll have. They trust the Cardinal’s virtue a bit more than I do, Milady.” D’Artagnan jerks the second pick sharply downwards, and is rewarded with the sound of the lock sliding out of place. She breathes out a giddy laugh of relief, and uses both hands to pry open the iron hinge and open the cell door. The metal girders ground low against each other, just barely low enough that it might not have alerted a guard. Still—“Come on, we need to hurry.”

“How— wait, D’Artagnan, how will we make it out without the guards—“

D’Artagnan cuts her off by pushing _into_ the cell instead of stepping out. She tilts her head towards the door, and after a long breathless moment of hearing no footsteps, begins to unbutton her jacket with nimble fingers.

“It’s not _we_ , Milady. Just you.” She shrugs off the jacket and starts on her shirtsleeves. Ninon is still for a less than a beat before understanding lights her eyes, and she reaches around for the ties on her thin underdress.

D’Artagnan kicks off her boots before reaching for her belt buckle, until all she’s left in are her loose brown pants and the bandages that hold her chest flat. Ninon waits to step out of her gown, hesitating just a moment before she steels herself and drops it all at once. D’Artagnan’s belt and pants follow silently.

How strange it is, she thinks to herself underneath the urgency, as Ninon throws the shirtsleeves over her head, covering the shock of smooth, unblemished, white skin, that she hasn’t been bare like this in front of another soul since she was no more than a child. How very strange, she thinks, that it feels a little bit like telling the truth.

Ninon puffs a loose strand of dirty hair out of her otherwise clean face and pulls D’Artagnan out of her thoughts, as she demands, “What next, then?” Her hands are struggling to tighten the bandages on her own, but she gets it done.

“You will wait in the kitchens, one floor up, and to the left. Stay hidden, until someone comes for you. No one will be looking for anyone, so you should be fine to make it to the stables unnoticed.” She shakes her hair out around her face, the braid having left it loose and wild, a suitable disguise for the moment. _All they need to do it wait for the shift change, that’s all_ , she thinks to herself _, and then this is all over_.

“What about you?” Ninon asks with narrowed eyes. She shoves her bright hair underneath D’Artagnan’s headscarf, the one Constance had given her, and for a moment her heart aches something fierce, before she shoves it aside.

“I’ll be fine. I have a plan.” She swallows and soldiers on. The dress hangs off her frame, but covers her well enough. The charade doesn’t need to last long. “The new shift starts in five minutes, and you need to be in the kitchens before then. The chances of one of the house guards recognizing the difference between us are minimal at best. They only know that a woman is being kept prisoner on the orders of the Cardinal.”

Ninon finishes buttoning the jacket and rubs her dirty hands across her cheeks to hide her complexion. She nods. “And the guards who brought me here don’t know what I look like. I was transferred from Paris to the Cardinal’s grounds with a bag over my head. D’Artagnan— this is genius. And you’re sure you’ll be all right? One of your Musketeers boys will get you out safely?”

She nods, not trusting her voice to stay steady in answer. “Ninon. Just promise me—promise you’ll save those girls. The ones who were forced back to their families?” Ninon nodded and reached a hand out to cup D’Artagnan’s face. The move was so gentle she almost crumbled to her knees right there. “Please get them out. Take what you can before the guards realize you’ve escaped, whatever valuables you can—just, get them out. They cannot survive like that. They need you.”

Ninon pressed a cool kiss to her cheek. D’Artagnan closed her eyes. “Yes, of course, my sweet girl.” She rubbed her thumb across one of the small white scars on D’Artagnan’s cheekbone. “Look at you. My very own Valkyrie to carry me off the field of battle.”

D’Artagnan smiled; it was not a good smile. “The battle isn’t over yet, _monsieur_.”

“Ah, but it never is, is it?” The other woman’s mouth ticked up sharply, and she dropped her palm from D’Artagnan’s face to clasp their hands together one last time. She nodded abruptly and placed D’Artagnan’s broad brimmed hat over her head. “Don’t worry, _mademoiselle_ , I know where they are. I’ve saved them all before, haven’t I?”

\------

Several miles away, in the distance, three riders on horseback tear through the trees. The sun is starting to sink towards the horizon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi hello im sorry but what better way to get back in the fic game than a CLIFF HANGER 
> 
> im...so sorry.

**Author's Note:**

> Come and chat with me on tumblr! www.theworthofhollin.tumblr.com


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